


A Time of Monsters

by GoldenDemon



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Body Horror, Ensemble Cast, Multi, Original Akuma Characters, Original Character(s), Police Brutality, Violence, gets somewhat Lovecraftian later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDemon/pseuds/GoldenDemon
Summary: "This is fine," Marinette said to herself for the hundredth time that morning. "Everything’s fine. You just have to never slip up in public and never let anyone know that you’re anything other than perfectly normal for the rest of your life or you’ll end up on a dissection table in a government lab somewhere. This is fine!!"Being a teenager is hard enough. When the government declares you "an imminent threat to the safety of the Republic," it sure doesn't get any easier. Mutants!AU





	1. A Time of Monsters

_The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born._

_Now is a time of monsters._

_\- Prison Notebooks_ , Antonio Gramsci

* * *

It was a Sunday morning and everything was golden light in Marinette’s room. Snuggled warm under her covers, she yawned and stretched, interlacing her fingers above her head and cracking her knuckles. No need to rush to school. No plans with friends. No chores, yet. A quiet weekend – a rare enough gift. Contemplatively, she gazed at her still-upraised hands.  The sunlight cast them in chiaroscuro planes. For a moment, they almost seemed alien to her; the abstract work of some unknown sculptor, a haunting confusion of curves and angles. Then the moment passed, and they were just her hands again.

And then, as she watched, her right pinky slowly drooped back on itself, falling bonelessly against the back of her hand. The other fingers followed, like a flower’s wilting petals or the tentacles of some strange anemone. She felt nothing – again, it was as though it was happening to someone else. Her eyes went wide with shock, her stomach twisting.

* * *

Marinette bolted upright with a scream. Her heart jackhammered in her chest as she looked at her hands. Normal. Normal. She made a fist with her right hand to be sure, skin stretching white over the bones at the knuckles. Bones. All there. Good.

 _That must…have been a nightmare?_ she wondered. She hoped it had been a nightmare.

“Marinette?” her mother called from downstairs. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Mom!” Marinette called back. “Just…startled myself, that’s all!” She pressed a (normal, normal) hand to her chest. Her heart was still pounding. After a moment, she untangled herself from her covers and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

_“…has stated that the number of missing persons cases is not significantly larger than in previous years, and criticized the media for irresponsibly creating public anxiety…"_

Sabine was watching Nadja Chamack on the television, a mug of coffee in her hands, as Marinette made her way downstairs. “Good morning,” Marinette said with a yawn.

“Morning, dear,” Sabine answered. “Sleep well?”

“Had a weird dream,” Marinette said, pouring coffee for herself. “How about you?”

“I couldn’t get to sleep!” her mother said. “I was up half the night worrying. Ever since that boy in your class disappeared...and now all of this business on the news!”

Marinette felt a weight settle in her stomach at the mention of Ivan. She usually tried not to think about it – the large, gentle boy had just stopped showing up to school a few weeks after classes had started. No one, including her, had thought much of it until Juleka had found Mylene crying in the bathroom. That was how everyone learned he’d been reported missing. It had been about a month, now, and there was no sign. Marinette still felt obscurely guilty about it – like she should have noticed something before it happened, or even noticed that it _had_ happened. Or that she should have been there for his family more, and nevermind that she’d never even met Ivan’s parents.

Sabine noticed Marinette’s uncomfortable silence. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said after a moment. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Marinette walked over and gave her mother a kiss on top of her head, bending over to hug her from behind. “It’s fine.”

“Are you going out with Alya today?”

“Yeah, this afternoon. We were going to go fabric shopping.”

“Well, be sure to ask your father if there’s anything he needs you to do first,” Sabine said, patting her daughter’s hand. “And be careful, Marinette. I know I’m a worrywart-”

“Don’t worry about me, Mom,” Marinette said with a chuckle. “You know I can handle myself. And I’d like to see anyone _try_ to kidnap Alya.”

* * *

Adrien frowned. The object of his frown placidly persisted in its course of action – to wit, itching. It was a rash, a line of angry red around his ring finger and spreading backwards onto his knuckle, and it had been itching all day. The skin was beginning to look scaly, and it felt hot when he touched it.

 _I didn’t think I had a nickel allergy_ , he thought for perhaps the twentieth time that day. _What was_ ** _on_** _that ring they had me wear for the photoshoot?_ With a growl of irritation, he scratched at it again. His father was out of town on business – again – but Adrien knew that if he told Nathalie, word would make it back to Gabriel, and then someone would lose their job. Possibly multiple someones. Gabriel Agreste did not like it when other people were not careful with his possessions. So, Adrien had resolved to wait and see if it went away on its own. The downside, of course, was that he hadn’t been able to ask for so much as a tube of ointment for it all day.

“If you’re not gone in the morning, I’m telling Nathalie,” he muttered threateningly, raising the offending hand closer to his face. The rebuke was as much directed at himself as the rash, however. It wouldn’t be the first time Adrien had decided to suffer quietly rather than risk a wrong move around his father. He sighed. “Aaaand I’m talking to a rash. Day complete.” Scowling, he grabbed his toothbrush. School tomorrow; he had better to get to bed early.

* * *

It was the sound of Adrien’s alarm that woke him. He groggily reached over and tapped his alarm clock. _Still have half an hour,_ he thought, reading the time. He rolled over to go back to sleep.

There was a tearing sound. Adrien looked over his shoulder and then jerked away with a yelp. A large, black stain marred the bedding to his right. The stench of mildew was thick in the air. The fabric was so rotted that it had torn as he moved. Adrien scrambled out of bed, backing away in revulsion.

“What the hell?” he said, pulling at his hair. “Oh, Dad’s gonna kill me…” Moving gingerly, as though the stain might rear up to attack him, Adrien stripped his bed, taking care not to touch the blackened area and to conceal it on the inside of the bundle. The stain had seeped into the mattress as well. “Great,” he muttered. “This’ll be hard to explain.” _Now to just…get these downstairs and throw them in the garbage without anyone noticing._ As he headed towards the door, he absentmindedly reached over with his free hand to scratch at his rash. The feeling of something peeling away underneath his nails stopped him. Shifting his load, Adrien brought his right hand up into view. “Eugh!” Some of the mold must have gotten on him without realizing. Where the rash had been, blackish scales were crusted on his hand. Awkwardly pinning the ruined sheets to his body with his elbow, he scratched at the stain. Like a dry scab, the black scales peeled off without resistance. The skin underneath looked healthy, normal. Adrien sighed with relief. It would be just his luck for a minor complaint to escalate to his hand rotting off, or something.

_Small mercies, I suppose._

* * *

Mme. Bustier had split the class up into small groups to work quietly – _quietly_ – through an assignment. _Quietly_. Marinette had not slept well, and consequently had a headache and a lingering sense of unease that the morning hadn’t shaken loose. She was having difficulty concentrating. She was having difficulty concentrating, not least because _Chloe Bourgeois_ was _talking_ while other people were trying to _work_ –

“So then I said, ‘Listen, I don’t know if this is what passes for good sushi wherever _you_ come from, but here in Paris we…’”

There was a snapping noise. “Damn, girl!” Alya said from Marinette’s left.

“Huh?” Marinette said, turning to look at Alya. She followed her best friend’s gaze back to the tablet pen in her own right hand – or rather, the pieces she’d snapped it into. Startled, she opened her hand. The two halves of the pen and a few shards of plastic fell onto the desk.

“You must have been using that stress ball I got you!” Alya said with a chuckle. “Although with that grip strength, maybe giving your hands a workout was counterproductive.”

“Before you know it, I’m gonna be buff as hell and you won’t be able to resist me,” Marinette quipped back, flexing her biceps jokingly.

“Hear that, Nino?” Alya said, whacking the boy gently on his arm. “Marinette’s elbowing in on your turf. Better hurry up and make a move already or she’ll steal me away.”

“I’m very confused right now,” Nino said.

“Who’s stealing? What?” Adrien said, turning to be included in the conversation.

“Marinette’s gonna get buff as hell and steal everyone’s girls,” Alya said with a smirk, elbowing Marinette for emphasis.

“Alya!!” Marinette’s face flushed bright red, and even though Adrien was grinning with good humor, she found herself unable to look directly at him.

“Well, if we’re condemned to be single for the rest of our _collège_ careers, I suppose it may as well be for the greater glory of Marinette’s terrifyingly sculpted abs,” said Adrien, running with the joke. He winked at her.

Marinette wondered if spontaneous human combustion was possible after all.

* * *

“Marinette, could you get the small bowls from the cupboard by the fridge?” Sabine said, stirring the pot on the stove. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yes, Mom,” Marinette said, looking up from her phone and tucking it into her pocket. “The white ones, right?”

“No, the striped ones.”

“Got it.” Marinette crouched, opening the cupboard drawer and rummaging among the stacks of dishes and cookwares. Finding the stack of striped bowls, she stood quickly. There was a sharp jolt. Marinette saw stars and heard a loud _crunch_.

“Oh, goodness! Dear, are you alright?” her mother said.

“Huh?” Marinette blinked, her vision clearing. As she’d stood, she must have hit the overhead cabinet – or, at least, she assumed that was what had happened. The doors hung open, the plywood bottom of the cabinets splintered into two halves, peaking upwards where there was a head-shaped dent in the wood frame along the front edge.

Tom was at his daughter’s side in an instant, gently holding her head. “Doesn’t feel like you cracked anything,” he said. “Do you feel dizzy at all?”

Marinette gingerly prodded at her head, wincing. “No, Papa, I think I’m fine,” she said.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three, Papa,” Marinette said sardonically. “I’m okay, really.”

Her father chuckled. “I thought you took more after your mother’s temperament, but it looks like you’ve got the Dupain hard head after all.”

Sabine laughed at that. “You only say that now because you didn’t have to try to put her down for naps as a child, dear!” Tom rubbed his head sheepishly at that, and Marinette laughed. As they took their seats around the table, Marinette’s worries eased in the warmth of a quiet family dinner. Her parents made doe eyes at each other across the table, her mother’s cooking was delicious – things were good. She smiled contentedly and slurped her noodles.

Her phone buzzed at her hip. Curious, she pulled it from her pocket. Alya had texted her.

_TURN ON YOUR TV_

_SERIOUSLY RIGHT NOW_

“Mom, Dad, turn on the TV,” Marinette said, a sinking feeling in her gut.

Ordinarily, the Dupain-Chengs had a strict “no TV or phones at dinner” rule. Her parents must have heard something in her voice, though, because they did as she said without question. The first thing they noticed were the words _GOVERNMENT HOLDS EMERGENCY PRESS CONFERENCE_ scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“ _-and we repeat, once again, afflicted individuals are to be considered extremely dangerous. Do not approach them or attempt to detain them; inform local law enforcement and await an official response. All citizens should also observe biohazard safety protocols where possible when interacting with afflicted individuals…"_

“This from an announcement by the office of the Minister of the Interior earlier tonight,” Nadja Chamack said, adjusting the papers in front of her. “It’s still unclear whether or not this is being treated as terrorism, but the National Police have formed a new task force in response to what we’re told is – incredible as this may seem – a number of crimes and attacks committed by individuals across the Republic with supernatural abilities. No word on how long the government has known about what they’re calling ‘akuma’ before they informed the public today…”

Marinette felt very far away from everything. Her fingers knotted nervously in her lap. _Supernatural abilities_. The news anchor’s words echoed in her ears. Dimly, she was aware that Mrs. Chamack was still talking. An anonymous tip hotline to report sightings or other information. Immediate detention, for public safety. The government urging any ‘akuma’ to turn themselves in peaceably. Filming or photographing officers of the Anti-Akuma Task Force to be strictly forbidden.

The rest of dinner passed in a whirl. She must have eaten, she assumed, or made her excuses. Maybe her parents cast worried glances at her back as she climbed the stairs back up to her room. Maybe their attention was fixed on the television. She couldn’t remember. She was standing on her roof, breathing heavily. There was a gentle mist falling, and the wrought-iron rail was slick with it. The streetlights glowed orange below her.

“Guess there’s only one way to know if I have anything to worry about!” she said to the empty air, a brittle smile on her face. She stretched out a hand – were her fingers trembling? – and gripped the railing. And squeezed. And twisted. At first, it didn’t give – but then it was as if a jolt of electricity ran up her arm, and suddenly she was aware of every muscle and nerve fiber and bone in her body. Just a little more _effort_ – and the sinews and muscles of her hand and forearm, like yarn and cotton stuffing, twisted in on themselves, knitting into something denser, harder. Steel cable, or spider silk. Her bones softened – they’d only get in the way of this liquid, coiling strength.

With a shriek of metal, the rail bent in her hand.

Marinette’s fingers unwrapped themselves from the railing, shrinking from flattened, spear-shaped tentacles back into ordinary human fingers. Her forearm unwound and straightened, and she could feel her bones re-hardening from the elbow down. Then the awareness was gone, and her arm was just…her arm, again.

“Well. That’s that, then,” she said, feeling faint.

* * *

The red glow of his alarm clock informed Adrien that it was 3:30 AM. He ached all over, and his stomach growled ferociously. It was stiflingly hot under his covers, and they were rubbing him the wrong way all over in a way that was profoundly uncomfortable. With a groan, he shuffled out from under them and set his legs on the floor. Which was when he noticed the black fur covering them.

Adrien bolted upright and scrambled for his bathroom, flipping the light switch. There was a flare of painful brilliance, and he threw an arm in front of his eyes with a hiss – a _hiss?_ Since when did he hiss?

After a moment, he lowered his arm, squinting, and jumped in surprise. Staring back at him through razor-slitted pupils in the mirror was…

“I’m a _werecat_ ,” Adrien breathed with, frankly, an entirely inappropriate amount of enthusiasm. He restrained himself from cackling as he jumped from one foot to the other in glee. “This is so cool!!” he scream-whispered at his reflection.

Two triangular ears stood up from the sides of his head, black fur contrasting against his blonde hair. His eyes were feline, slit-pupilled. His coat of silky black fur was uneven, thinning out to nothing on his face and torso. Wicked, curved claws extended from his fingertips and – he bent to check – yep, his toes as well. He flexed his hands experimentally; they didn’t seem to be retractable. He tried the same with his toes, and the claws slid _further_ out, clinking on the bathroom tile. _Those are…quite large_ , Adrien observed.

No whiskers either, he noticed, turning his face to and fro. He grimaced experimentally – _oooh_. Those were _fangs_. A sudden thought seized him, and he whirled, craning his head over his shoulder. There it was, the _piece de resistance_ of the whole ensemble, poking out of the bottom of his boxers and twitching to and fro – a tail.

“This. Is so. _Cooooool_ ,” Adrien whined to himself, dragging his hands down his face – carefully, in light of his newfound, wicked talons. He adjusted his boxers slightly, and pulled his tail out so that it sat above the waistband. “Hm. That’s better.”

His stomach growled, loudly, sending a pang through his abdomen. Adrien snapped back to reality with a grimace. This was still extremely cool, but he was now beginning to consider questions like ‘what if this isn’t temporary’ and ‘how am I going to explain this if Dad sees me sneaking into the kitchen’. His stomach gurgled again, and Adrien concluded that if his life had just totally collapsed, he had better face it on a full stomach anyway. It was against his diet, but hey – the circumstances were extraordinary. Adrien reached over and flicked the light switch off. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, pupils going wide and dark. Everything looked grey and washed-out, but the moonlight streaming in through his windows was as bright as daytime. Adrien padded over to his wardrobe, marveling at how quietly he could move and how much better his sense of his own balance and body was, and pulled out a t-shirt, carefully. As he tried to slide it over his head, a claw caught in the material and he heard a tearing sound. _Damn. Gonna have to work on that_ , he thought to himself.

Adrien crept carefully downstairs to the kitchen. His father never checked the security camera footage unless there had been an incident overnight, so he wasn’t worried about being seen, only heard. He looked at the tiny, mirrored dome of the camera on the ceiling and gave it a mischievous wink. The house was as quiet as the grave, and Adrien reached the kitchen without incident. He sniffed the air, and then reeled in shock as a wave of aromas swamped him. Stainless steel, the caustic smell of tile cleaner, the faint whiffs of spices in their jars, dust from behind the refrigerator, and…his mouth watered. _Camembert?_ Ordinarily Adrien couldn’t stand the stuff, but tonight even a faint whiff of the foul-smelling, gooey cheese tucked away in a distant corner of the pantry made his stomach claw at the walls of his abdomen with renewed intensity. _Well, at least I’m not craving the blood of the innocent or anything_ , Adrien thought to himself. _Might as well trust my gut_. He walked into the pantry and pulled the box of cheese down from the shelf, carrying it over to the kitchen island. When he opened the box and unwrapped the paper around the cheese, he could feel himself practically drooling onto the granite countertop. When the knife slid through the rind and he levered a slice onto his plate, his knees nearly gave out from under him. It was _indecent_. The cheese still smelled disgusting, though – still super gross. But _lord_ if he didn’t want some.

He polished off the whole wheel, punctuated by a series of truly disgusting belches. Then, to his embarrassment, proceeded to lick the plate clean.

* * *

“Wow, dude, are you doing okay?” Nino asked as Adrien stumbled to his seat, stifling a yawn. Marinette could actually tell that Adrien was wearing makeup, for a change – not that he didn’t usually wear it, but he favored a very minimalist approach. There was no reason to gild the lily, after all. From the looks of it, though, he’d felt the need to conceal some truly epic bags under his eyes.

“I’m great, actually,” Adrien said, yawning again in the middle of his sentence. “Just didn’t get any sleep last night is all.” He rolled his neck with a groan and an audible crack.

“Did you hear about what happened?” Alya said, looking like she was about to bolt over the desk and shake Adrien like a rag doll unless he answered her question. The amateur journalist was wild-eyed and bed-headed, her attention seized by yesterday’s unbelievable announcement.

“Huh? No, what happened?” Adrien said, face blank with incomprehension.

“Oh my god, have you not _heard?!_ ” Alya almost yelled the last word. “The National Police say that they’re forming a new task force to deal with _supervillain_ attacks! _Supervillains,_ Adrien!!”

“Well, they never actually used that word…” Marinette protested feebly.

“Wait, what, _supervillains_?” Adrien asked, eyes widening.

 _His eyes are such a beautiful green…_ Marinette thought, totally losing track of what she had been going to say to try and calm Alya down.

“Dude, did you seriously not see any of the news about it?” Nino asked. “It was all over. Every channel, all night and all this morning too. They’re saying that people are getting weird powers, or turning into monsters and attacking people, but the government’s being super hush-hush about it – no details on when, or where, or how long this has been going on. My mom says it’s all super shady.”

“It is absolutely shady,” Alya said firmly. “This is some fucking…hashtag Illuminati, hashtag New World Order, hashtag 666 conspiracy shit, you guys. They say you can’t even film the cops when they’re arresting one of these people! I bet this is all a cover-up for, like, illegal weapons tests on the French public, and the government’s gonna stage false-flag terrorist attacks and declare a permanent state of emergency and start herding us all into-”

The sound of Ms. Bustier loudly clearing her throat cut through Alya’s speculations. “Miss Cesaire,” their teacher said sharply. “Class is beginning, so please be quiet and return to your seat.”

Scowling, Alya sat back down. Marinette shifted uneasily in her seat, stomach tying itself in knots. In the row in front of her, Adrien looked shell-shocked as well. Half-consciously, he scratched at the knuckles of his right hand.

 _This is fine,_ Marinette said to herself for the hundredth time that morning. _Everything’s fine. You just have to never slip up in public and never let anyone know that you’re anything other than perfectly normal for the rest of your life or you’ll end up on a dissection table in a government lab somewhere. This is fine!!_

* * *

The rest of the day advanced at a crawl. Marinette was quiet through dinner, a headache building as visions of every possible disastrous course her future could now take pounded against the inside of her forehead. After dinner, she retreated to her room with a mug of tea to do her homework. She stared at a page of physics for ten minutes until the numbers started to do a mocking little dance. With a grunt of irritation, Marinette shoved her homework to the side and pulled out her sketchbook. If she couldn’t be productive, she could at least do something she enjoyed instead.

Marinette lost herself in the sketching; some time passed before she remembered her tea. _Oh, shoot! I hope it’s not cold already_ , she thought, whirling in her swivel chair. As she turned, the chair’s armrest jostled her desk and her mug, which she now saw was precariously positioned on the corner of her desk, slipped and looked as though it might fall. With a surge of panic, Marinette’s arm snapped out to catch it. She knew as soon as she started the gesture that it was futile, and she was going to have to clean a tea stain out of her rug, _again_.

Her body, however, seemed to have other ideas. As she lunged for the falling mug, her arm _stretched_ , less like taffy and more like a striking snake. As her fingers closed around the still-warm ceramic, she was so startled she almost dropped the mug again. Carefully, she nudged her tea back a safe distance from the edge of the desk, and then released it. Her arm retracted, at a leisurely pace, back to its normal length.

“Great. Every time I drop something,” – _frequently_ – “or bump into something,” – **_very_** _frequently_ – “or trip over something,” – _at least once daily_ – “I have to keep myself from turning into Extenda-Girl,” she muttered to herself. “You’re doomed, Marinette.” She rolled her chair over to the end of her desk and retrieved her mug in the conventional fashion, taking a sip. Only lukewarm. Oh well.

 _What would everyone say if they found out?_ she wondered. _Alya would freak out, of course. But, like, in a supportive way. She loves all the superhero stuff. Chloe…god, Chloe would rip me to shreds. ‘Ha ha, there goes Marinette the chewing-gum girl! I always knew she was a freak!’_ Marinette shuddered, visions unfolding in her imagination of a chibi Marinette being led away in handcuffs by the chibi police while a chibi Chloe and Sabrina laughed mockingly. Her thoughts, traitors that they were, turned to Adrien. _What would Adrien say…how would he even find out? What if I try to talk to him and I_ **_literally_ ** _collapse into a puddle from the embarrassment? What if Adrien and I were kissing and my tongue like turns into a tentacle and tries to climb down his throat?!?_

Marinette became distracted for a moment by thoughts of what it might be like to kiss Adrien _without_ any tongue-tentacle mishaps.

A very, ah… _long_ moment.

 _Wait, focus!!_ she chided herself. She clapped her hands to her heated cheeks. _No objectifying your classmates, even if they are beautiful beyond any reasonable justification!_

“Ugh, _so_ beautiful…” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. She turned to her wall, gazing resentfully at Adrien. The boy model smiled back at her from two dozen magazine cutouts. “You’re ruining my life,” she informed her crush’s picture. “I hope you’re happy, you stupid…perfect…life-ruiner.”

* * *

It had taken Adrien a few days of thinking to figure out how to leave the house without being seen by the cameras. The transformations had come every night since the first, the time of their onset varying. Adrien had lost a _lot_ of sleep this week, but he encouraged himself with the thought that it was for the sake of scientific inquiry. He’d transformed as early as 8:00PM and as late as 3:00AM, but always after sunset. And every night, with none of the unpredictability of the transformation’s start, his claws would shrink and his coat would thin to nothing exactly at sunrise. While the night lasted, though…

Fencing practice and a regular gym routine kept Adrien fitter than most boys his age. The cat-form, though, brought with it an effortless, pantherine strength. And his balance was…well, cat-like. He’d tested it; he could do push-ups with one arm now. _Just_ one arm, legs in the air, his entire body weight supported on a single limb. To say that his senses were sharper would have been an understatement; it would be like comparing a knife to a sword. This change was more like swapping out a knife for a bazooka. His sense of smell was almost overpowering; he could smell yesterday’s garbage from when the chef had made dinner, where it sat in the kitchen trashcan downstairs and through two closed doors. He could hear the hum of traffic through the house’s soundproof windows. It wasn’t all upside, though; he’d clawed some difficult-to-explain tears in his clothes and bedding trying to navigate around his claws, and his appetite was growing increasingly ravenous. His daily caloric intake had at _least_ doubled, and he knew his father was going to ask some pointed questions if he found out how much food Adrien had been sneaking out of the kitchen.

But, anyway, the cameras. Gabriel had many of the exterior cameras rigged to motion-sensitive lights, and unlike the interior cameras these ones _were_ watched around the clock by security contractors. There were even cameras watching the _roof_ , in case of…hang-gliding burglars? Adrien honestly didn’t know. Gabriel seemed more than a little paranoid – even the security company wasn’t allowed to keep recordings or handle the original security-camera data, it was all streamed to them remotely. His old man was _serious_ about privacy. But he had access to all the feeds, which meant Adrien knew where all the cameras were. The house was impenetrable from the outside – but from the _inside_ , with a little superhuman agility…well, it might just be possible to sneak out for a midnight adventure. Adrien was _dying_ to find out just what his new abilities could do. Danger notwithstanding – all he had to do was stay out of sight, right?

His watch beeped softly. Midnight. On an ordinary night there was no guarantee that everyone else would be asleep by this hour, _especially_ his father, but Agreste senior had to catch an 8:00AM flight to Germany tomorrow morning which meant he’d be out of the house by 6:30 at the latest. For six hours of sleep, that meant he’d have to hit the hay right about now. Adrien finished his stretches with a grin, bouncing on the pads of his feet with excitement. Time to get started.

Padding over to his enormous windows, he cracked one open and hopped up onto the sill. It was a cold night, winter beginning to make itself felt, but his fur coat was surprisingly warm. He’d still thrown on a jacket, though. Shearling jacket, tank top, basketball shorts, no shoes or gloves. Late November. His father would have had a heart attack as an overprotective parent _and_ a fashion tastemaker. With a rebellious grin, Adrien clambered out of his window. Balancing on the narrow ornamental outcropping underneath his window was tricky, but his claws digging into the stucco made him feel a little more secure. With a surge, Adrien _leapt_ up along the wall. He’d watched at least an hour of videos of cats doing this to try to get the trick down, but now, trying it for real, it was almost instinctual. In the blink of an eye, he was clinging to the gutter, heart pounding. He was unable to contain a cackle of excitement. “That was _awesome!_ ” That had to have been twelve feet, easy. He looked down. Probably more like twenty. Beside him, tucked away under the masonry overhang, a security camera sat. Adrien had made sure it wouldn’t catch more than a glimpse of him as he left his window; now, as he gently pushed it a degree or two further, he would be totally out of its field of view. Although his windows faced the back of the house, it still unfortunately wasn’t as simple as climbing back down the wall and walking off, even with this adjustment. Adrien levered himself up and onto the roof, balancing catlike on the faux rampart around its edge. He reached down and gently adjusted the inward-facing camera mounted partway down it, then crept through the newly-opened blind spot onto the roof. As he went, minute nudges to the positions of the cameras – not enough to be noticed, he imagined, especially if his father had no reason to believe they’d been tampered with – carved out a narrow, zigzagging path that he could move along unobserved. At last, he adjusted the final camera. He had, if his math was correct, a meter-wide corridor down the wall and across the street at an angle, where he could then vanish around a corner.

As he lowered himself back off the roof to begin the climb down the wall, the masonry of the rampart suddenly crumbled under his hand. With a yelp, he lost his grip and plunged for a heart-stopping moment before he lashed out and seized two handfuls of the ivy that climbed up this corner of the rear wall, his toe-claws gouging into the wall to bring him to a halt. He breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close.

The ivy snapped under his hands and he fell backwards again. Moving reflexively, he twisted in midair, landing on the pavement below on all fours. His palms and feet stung, but…it hurt a lot less than he expected. And he wasn’t dead! “Guess cats really do always land on their feet,” he said smugly, tail swishing. He looked around. The street was deserted; good thing, too, that would’ve been hard to explain. Wasting no time, he scrambled down his blind-spot corridor to freedom.

* * *

“Could you do some shopping for me while you’re out today?” Sabine asked as Marinette sipped her morning coffee.

“Huh? Oh, sure thing!” Marinette said. “Alya and I didn’t have anything planned today, actually. She has to watch her sisters. What-all do you need?” She pulled out her notebook and a pen.

“I made a list.” Her mother handed her a slip of paper. “We’re always busy on weekends, so I’ll be in the shop for most of the day, but call if you need help with anything.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” Marinette said. “I’ll go ahead and go now; I’ve got to babysit Manon this afternoon, remember?”

“Oh, right! I’d totally forgotten,” Sabine said. “Well, I’ll see you later then. Be safe! There’s some cash in the drawer by the sink.” She kissed Marinette on the forehead and headed downstairs to the bakery. Marinette scanned the list. It was long, but doable. She’d better get a move on.

* * *

 _Was that everything?_ Marinette double-checked the list against the bags in her hands again. Seemed like – she had Dad’s medicine from the pharmacy, Mom’s dried peppers and imported melon-flavored diet soft drink from the Chinese supermarket, all the stuff from the regular supermarket, and even the replacement filter for the air conditioner. _I made good time_ , she thought with a smile, stepping out of the supermarket and back into the open-air mall.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until someone screamed. Her head snapped up in alarm. Nobody was looking at her – in fact, people all seemed to be looking and heading in the same direction, where the scream had come from. Marinette hurried in that direction as well – if someone was hurt, she shouldn’t just stand there. The crowd grew thicker, and people had their phones out taking video of…something. As Marinette elbowed her way through, she heard someone apologizing.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry, please excuse me...Oh, Lord, this is so embarrassing…Please, I’m sorry, I just…”

After a moment, she broke through the crowd, and immediately saw what the hubbub was about. There was a man falling to pieces in front of her - _literally_. Skinny, balding, unremarkable to look at – except for the fact that he looked like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle made of jello. Spilled groceries littered the concrete around him, as did…well, pieces of himself. Marinette watched the man, on his hands and knees, reach for a stray orange that was rolling away from him, and the end of his arm smoothly detached. The jigsaw-puzzle description was entirely literal – she could see a puzzle-piece-like lump on the end of the detached hand and a matching groove on the man’s wrist-stump. There was no spray of blood, thankfully – although Marinette could see his arm in cross-section, veins twitching as his heart continued to beat, and she felt momentarily sick. “Oh, blast it,” the man said, reaching for his fallen hand with his other arm. As he did, a piece of his face, outlined by the seams that Marinette could now see crisscrossing his body, fell out of his head, and his knee slipped on another stray orange. The man collapsed onto his side with a yelp. People backed away from the struggling – _akuma, he’s an akuma_ , Marinette realized at last - like a school of fish avoiding a shark. Nobody was doing anything to help him. Everyone was just… _filming_.

Before she knew what she was doing, Marinette had dropped her bags of groceries. “Here, sir, let me help you,” she said, lifting him back up. She retrieved his hand and offered it to him.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, face red and avoiding her eyes. “So sorry…I’m a mess…”

Marinette said nothing, quickly gathering up the man’s groceries and tucking them into his bags. The carton of milk had burst and some of the fruit was badly bruised, and she stepped on one of his pieces by accident. He yelped, she apologized, he said it was nothing. “Are you alright?” she asked him softly.

Before he could respond, someone yelled from behind her. “ _Hands above your head, now!!_ ” Marinette turned, startled. A pair of officers from the National Police had shoved through the crowd. It was one of them who had shouted.

“Please, could you-” Marinette began, intending to finish the question with _help us_.

“I said _hands above your head!_ ” the officer screamed. Marinette noticed that the other officer’s pistol was out and pointed at her. The bottom fell out of her stomach. “ _Get away from him!_ ”

Marinette stood, arms raised at her sides. The other officer moved towards the struggling akuma, roughly pulling his wrists behind him, a zip tie in her hand. “Please, he wasn’t hurting anyone, he just needs some-” Marinette began again, starting towards the pair.

There was a moment of pain and she saw stars. Marinette stumbled and fell forwards, hand going to the back of her head. She hissed as her touch brought more pain. She looked back up at the cop who had held her, and saw a truncheon in his hand.

People always talked about “seeing red” when they were angry, but that had never been Marinette’s experience. When she was angry – _really_ angry – everything went white. The kind of white that almost looked like black, the color of television tuned to a dead channel.

Marinette was seeing white now.

In one fluid motion she rose and lashed out. _Thumb on the outside, punch from the hips not the shoulder,_ she reminded herself in the half-second it took her to close the distance between them. She felt the impact jar up her arm. Feet leaving the ground, the cop landed flat on his back.

There was a series of very loud noises, and something that felt an awful lot like a truck slammed into Marinette’s back. She stumbled, ears ringing and back aching, and turned. The other police officer stood, legs shoulder-width apart in a firing stance, eyes wide with fear, pistol raised.

 _She_ **_shot_ ** _me!_ Marinette realized, with a hysterical mixture of terror and outrage.

Marinette’s arm lashed out, stretching beyond its normal length to grab the barrel of the pistol. It was hot – scorching hot – to the touch, but it didn’t hurt. Effortlessly, she yanked the gun from the policewoman’s grip and tossed it away behind her. Her other hand grabbed the officer’s collar, yanking her off her feet. The woman was taller and heavier than Marinette, but Marinette found herself able to hold her off the ground with one arm with no exertion, their faces inches apart. Marinette could see herself reflected in the other woman’s eyes. Where was – what had happened to her _face?_ From the collar of her shirt to the line of her hair, there was only a smooth expanse of strawberry-red marked with a pattern of black dots.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette saw the cop try to reach for something at her hip. Marinette headbutted her, pre-empting that; she felt the cop’s nose break against her forehead. As the cop stumbled backwards, bleeding from the face, Marinette saw that she must have been reaching for her taser. Her arm lashed out again, grabbing it from its holster. Absently, she crushed it, the hardened plastic crumpling in her grip. The cop was still stumbling backwards, trying to flee. Marinette took two steps after her, winding up for a full-force jab to the cop’s solar plexus. The sound of the impact was like someone dropping something heavy on a concrete floor. The officer went flying several meters. She did not rise.

Marinette let out a deep, shuddering breath through her nose. Fingers and legs shaking, pulse pounding in her throat, she turned and knelt by the jigsaw-man, snapping the zip-ties around his wrists one-handed. She tried to open her mouth to speak, only to experience the very confusing sensation of having no mouth. As soon as it came it was gone, though, and she felt her face form lips and a mouth again. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine,” the man said, his watery eyes wide behind thick glasses. “You should run, though.” Marinette managed a nod, the sick feeling back in her stomach. As she turned to leave, the hapless akuma spoke again. “Miss!” Marinette paused, looking over her shoulder at him. “Thank you,” he said, softly but with feeling.

Marinette nodded again, not sure how to respond. She looked at the skyline around her, then at her arm. A thought occurred to her. She flung her arm out and _reached_. It stretched, and stretched, and she caught hold of the edge of a roof. She took a few steps forward for a running start, the crowd backing away from her in fear, and then flung herself into the air. It was more of an effort than bending her railing or assaulting a police officer, her shoulder joint aching, but she pulled herself up by her retracting arm-lasso, landing smoothly on the rooftop. With a last glance back at the mess she’d made, she was off.

* * *

Marinette didn’t stop until she was only a block or so from her house. She’d tried her best to stay out of sight, and she didn’t think she’d been followed. No police helicopters circling, at least. She stumbled to a halt on a rooftop, and ducked into a gap between two chimneys after a quick look around. Her legs almost gave out from under her, and she sat heavily against the brick with a groan. Her back ached all over. Gingerly, she shrugged her coat off and felt at her back for the bullet holes – bleeding gunshot wounds would be hard to explain to her parents.

Starting just below her shoulder on her back, though, her probing fingers found something…stiff, and hard, stretching the skin of her back over it. Her skin itself felt different, too – her arms were still that bright-red color with black polka-dots. It felt more like leather or thick plastic than it did her skin – although she could still feel her own touch just as well.

After a moment of searching, she found the first bullet. It was still sticking out of her back. With a wince, she dislodged it, and held it up to look at it. The slug was flattened, deformed – and not bloody. It must have hit the… _armor plating?_ Marinette guessed. The armor plating on her back, and stopped there. Some more feeling around confirmed two more impact-flattened lumps of metal, stuck in her skin but no deeper. As she pried the last one loose, there was a disorienting _shifting_ in her back, as though something was draining out or untensing. When Marinette probed at her back again with her fingers, she hissed in pain. The armor plates, or whatever they were, were gone – and she was _definitely_ going to be bruised tomorrow.

She pulled out her phone, thankfully uncrushed by her acrobatics, and pulled up the front-facing camera to take a look at herself. Just as she’d seen earlier – her face was nothing but an expanse of bright red skin patterned with black spots. Her nose and mouth were both there now, though. One of her pigtails had come loose, so she was badly asymmetrical. She fussed with it for a moment.

 _How can I see if I don’t have any eyes?_ she wondered. She picked her phone back up and probed at her face curiously. As if waiting for the question, two of the black spots opened to the sides, like lizard eyelids, to reveal her familiar blue eyes. Marinette blinked in surprise. Then blinked again, but…different. The black membranes slid back over her eyes. Her sight didn’t get any dimmer – she wondered what they were for. Whatever it was, she didn’t like them. They made her look alien. Threatening.

Marinette took a deep breath, and tried to calm herself. She couldn’t go home looking like this. Looking at herself on her phone’s screen, she willed her appearance to return to normal. After a moment, it did so, the red-and-black sliding down her face and vanishing. She wasn’t looking at a faceless monster anymore. Just a very tired, very scared teenage girl.

Marinette got up and put her coat back on. She’d just have to explain the bullet holes as…rips from it snagging on things, or something, if her mom noticed them. With legs that felt like they were made of lead, she stumbled back up to the top of the roof and looked around. There, on the other side of the street – an apartment building with a rooftop door. That would do. With a short running start, she cleared the ten-meter jump easily, although she landed badly and skinned her hands catching herself.

“Guess the red stuff is tougher than my normal skin,” she said with a grimace, looking at her scraped hands. At least she hadn’t broken the skin too badly. She walked over to the rooftop door. Padlocked.

She pulled the lock off and went down.

* * *

“Marinette?” her father said when she stumbled through the front door of the bakery. “I thought you were out getting groceries.”

“I…Papa, something happened,” she began, and then she was crying, and Tom had left the register and his arms were around here.

“Are you okay?” he asked her, voice low and protective.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m, I’m not hurt,” she managed, and let out a wracking sob.

“I’m gonna hand you off to your mother, okay? But I’ll be right there as soon as I can,” Tom said reassuringly. Marinette was passed from his arms to her mother’s, and she allowed herself to be led upstairs.

“What happened, dear?” Sabine asked once she’d gotten Marinette settled on the couch.

“There was…there was one of those people, that they were talking about, on the news. The akuma. At the shopping center. But he wasn’t _doing_ anything, he wasn’t hurting anyone, and then the cops showed up and they were yelling and then they just started _shooting_ and everyone _ran_ and…” Marinette paused. “Oh, no, Mom, I forgot the groceries, they probably all got trampled and I know that money’s always tight I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Oh, sweetie,” Sabine said, gathering her daughter to her. “I’m so glad you’re alright. Don’t worry about the groceries; _you’re_ what’s important. You did the right thing getting to safety.”

Marinette sniffled into her mother’s shoulder, guilt and worry hot in her stomach. Guilt over losing the groceries, guilt for lying to her parents, guilt for overreacting – she might have seriously hurt those police officers, and they were just trying to keep everyone safe, and she didn’t _know_ that the man hadn’t been doing anything wrong, maybe he was some sort of mutant serial killer who chopped people into puzzle pieces or something, maybe the government knew something she didn’t and akuma really _were_ dangerous, maybe they were contagious or unstable or, or…and there were so many people with cell phones, some of them had to have seen her face before she transformed, or maybe the police would remember what she looked like. The cops – the _army_ – were probably on their way right now, and they’d arrest her parents too as accessories after the fact and she’d ruined their lives over nothing and it was _all her fault_.

“It’s okay, Marinette. It’s okay,” Sabine said softly, stroking Marinette’s hair. Marinette said nothing, but she could not help but feeling that things were very much not okay at all.

* * *

Adrien was absently browsing the web on his phone while the hairstylist flitted to and fro. His scrolling was interrupted by a text from Nino. _dude did you hear?_ _two akuma rumbled with les flics in 21ème!!_ Adrien’s eyes widened.

 _Deets now,_  he texted back, fingers moving like lightning. Nino sent a link. It was to a video, clearly taken on somebody’s cell phone; the video was taken over the heads of a crowd of people, so it wasn’t clear what was going on, but Adrien heard three cracks and then people started screaming and running. The anonymous cameraperson stayed put, though, and the clearing crowd parted in time for Adrien to see a short, slender figure with…red-and-black skin? The figure crushed something bright yellow in its hand and tossed it away contemptuously, and then with two quick steps forward slammed its fist into the chest of a police officer, sending them flying.

 _all the videos are getting taken down. i saved a copy of this one in time_ , Nino texted. _saw some of the better ones earlier, from ppl who were closer to the action. its not on the news yet i dont think_

“Mr. Agreste, please hold still!” the hairstylist said chidingly.

“Sorry,” Adrien said sheepishly. He’d been hunching forwards over his phone without realizing it. He sat up straighter, but continued texting Nino. _What could you see in the other videos?_

_not much more. the one cop that got punched in that video was trying to arrest some other dude who ppl are saying was an akuma too, and then the other akuma showed up and kicked the crap out of them and then ran away_

Adrien’s mind whirled. Were the akuma actually dangerous, then? He didn’t… _feel_ particularly dangerous. Or like doing crimes, or assaulting a police officer, or even cackling maniacally, which was probably the bare minimum for being a supervillain. He chewed at his lip, thinking. Nino had said it wasn’t in the news yet, but it couldn’t hurt to check. He opened up TVi News’ website. There, at the top of the feed – the article had been posted less than five minutes ago. _AKUMA ATTACK IN PARIS?_

Adrien sent Nino the link as he opened the article. It was headed by a video clip of Nadja Chamack speaking, which he played. “The National Police have just released a statement about an incident earlier today in the 21st Arrondissement. Two officers have been hospitalized with severe but non-life-threatening injuries after an attack by an unknown assailant, believed to be one of the individuals discussed in the statement last week by Minister…”

He skimmed the article for more details. No information on the location any more specific than the arrondissement – so, not specific at all. Nothing about motive, nothing about suspects. No details about the arrest Nino had mentioned. He frowned. Well, it had only been a few hours – there was sure to be more news tomorrow.

Adrien’s brow furrowed in thought. He watched his reflection in the mirror. It stood to reason, he thought, that if akuma were people – and he certainly liked to think of himself as a person – then there were good akuma and bad akuma, just like any other group of people. His lips curled up in a feline grin.

And really, what better answer to a supervillain than a superhero?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote that opens this chapter is a...shall we say, _fanciful_ rendering of Gramsci's original words in Italian, which are unfortunately much less badass-sounding. Whatever, I'm fake deep.
> 
> Additional content warnings will appear as necessary at the beginnings of relevant chapters.


	2. Dangerous Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: we get a look inside the police response to the supervillain threat; Nino contracts a mysterious illness; Marinette solidifies her intentions; and Adrien gets wrecked. (cw: emetophobia)

_"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing."_

\- Alya Cesaire

* * *

Roger Raincomprix was sipping a cup of mediocre coffee, sitting by himself in the front row of the meeting room. They’d been warned to expect a longer than usual briefing this morning; someone was coming to the precinct to brief them on the big announcement. _Big announcement_ , he thought to himself with a snort. _We can’t even say the damn words_. Even him; whenever his mind got close to the word, the word everyone was saying and no one _could_ say, it shied away from it.

Superpowers.

In any case, they were five minutes overdue to start. Roger was getting increasingly annoyed; it was bad manners to keep people waiting. Unprofessional. The room was restless, like school kids when the substitute’s late – banter dragged on too long, starting to spoil. It was noisier than Roger would have liked, and he always had trouble concentrating when there was noise. So he almost didn’t notice at first when the three men walked into the room, trailing after Captain Mossé. But he did notice, and then the alarm bells started going off.

Two big guys, with faces so utterly forgettable and nondescript that they might as well have been brothers and upper arms the size of his thighs, bracketed the guy in the middle. They both had very visible pistols holstered at their sides, and were wearing polo shirts and slacks. No uniforms, no rank insignia. No facial expressions. Intimidating, sure, but Roger was familiar enough with the species.

The third man, though…Roger saw the shitty little moustache and the aviator shades worn indoors and his brain reached for the word _asshole_. But then he noticed the way the man carried himself, and how extremely nondescript his suit was. And how nondescript the man, for that matter - average height, average build, could be any one of half a dozen ethnicities and anywhere between thirty and fifty. Roger’s gut tapped his brain on the shoulder, and offered up instead for its consideration the word _spook_.

“Alright, everyone, settle down,” Captain Mosse said, taking the podium. The hubbub of the room quieted as the officers of the 21st arrondissement took their seats. “In case you haven’t heard, Petit and Lacan’s injuries aren’t life-threatening and they’re expected to recover. They say Lacan might need reconstructive surgery, which I’m sure will be as profound a relief to you all, who’ve had to stare at his ugly mug for years, as it is to his wife.” There was a round of laughter, and the captain paused to let it conclude. His face took on a grimmer cast. “Our scumbag’s still out there, though, which is why you’re all here today. We’ve got somebody here from the new task force to talk to us about what we should expect, going forwards.” He indicated that the man in the suit should take the podium.

“Good morning,” the man said, adjusting the microphone. “You can call me Jacques.”

No rank, no last name? _Definitely a spook_ , Roger concluded.

“Alright, lemme just say what I’m sure you’re all thinking,” Jacques said with a condescending grin. “This is all bullshit, right? I mean, _superpowers_? Come on, this is real life, not comic books.” He chuckled. “Well, you’re absolutely right, it is total bullshit. It’s the kind of total bullshit that put two of your friends in the hospital this weekend. You know that kind of bullshit. It’s the kind of bullshit someone drops in your lap and says ‘ _here, you, deal with this._ ’ Unfortunately for you all, we can’t be everywhere so you’re probably going to have to deal with an akuma sooner rather than later.” Jacques took the remote from the podium and lowered the projector screen. “Could someone get the lights, please? Thanks. So we’ve gotten permission to declassify some things to give you an idea of what you’re gonna be dealing with.

“Akuma. It’s a Japanese word, I don’t know how many of you noticed that. Call ‘em whatever you want. Supervillains. Mutants. Enhanciles. The Japanese don’t even call them akuma anymore, they have some fancy technical term for them. Most of the information on this topic is still classified, but here’s what you _are_ allowed to know. Akuma can be anybody. Men, women, children, senior citizens, person in a wheelchair, your boss – doesn’t matter. There are no patterns. Any and all individuals manifesting akumatization are to be considered tangible and present risks to public safety and are to be detained on sight using any necessary force – but you’ve all heard that already. You’ll all be getting instructions later about custody transfers and detention procedures – none of your facilities are equipped for the long-term storage of akuma prisoners so we’ll be taking them off your hands as quickly as we can. As far as actually detaining an akuma, well...” He shrugged. “Their capabilities vary enormously, so it’s hard to make general statements. For example, many have enhanced mobility.”

Raising the remote, Jacques started a video clip embedded in the presentation. It was, presumably, taken from a helmet-cam. A man in tactical gear stood in a doorway, his back to the camera. After a moment, he shouted in alarm and fired his rifle. A cloud of smoke billowed out of the doorway, enveloping the soldier, before congealing in an instant into a bone-thin man with a wild shock of greying hair. The man was naked, but a knife glittered in his right hand as he proceeded to vigorously stab the soldier several times in the back. As the cameraman raised his own rifle and let loose a panicked burst of fire at the akuma, he burst into a cloud of smoke again before re-solidifying mere inches from the camera. The assembled officers of the 21st were treated to a larger-than-life shot of his snarling, furious face as he tackled the cameraman. Blood splattered the lens, and the akuma’s face.

“Or enhanced durability,” Jacques continued, starting another video. This one was from the dashboard camera of a vehicle. The date and time information in the upper right-hand corner had been blurred out, as had a street sign that was visible. A woman stood calmly in the middle of the street as the car rushed towards her. Roger flinched reflexively at the impact. Rather than going flying, however, the woman stood as still as a statue, not even staggering from the impact, while the car’s hood crumpled around her. The perspective canted dizzyingly as she pried the car off of her , then lifted it one-handed over her head and tossed it away as casually as someone discarding an empty candy wrapper. The camera cut to black before the impact.

“Most will have some sort of offensive capability, which is why we advise you to treat all of them as armed and dangerous regardless of appearances.” Back to helmet-cam footage, eerily silent. A booted foot kicked a door down, and the camera burst into an ordinary-looking apartment. A young boy, sitting on the floor in front of the television, turned in alarm at the noise. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Behind him, the television screen shattered and loose papers on the coffee table flew away from him. The lens of the helmet-cam cracked, and the cameraman went flying backwards to smash into the wall and collapse, limp, to the ground.

“And sometimes you’ll get all of the above,” said Jacques, and another video began to play. This one was from a cell phone, it looked like. A man in the uniform of the National Police struck someone with his baton – _Lacan, that’s Lacan_ , Roger realized – knocking them to their knees. After a moment, the figure surged upwards, and with startling speed delivered a jab that snapped Lacan’s head to the side and knocked him off his feet. Behind the figure, Petit drew her gun and opened fire. The akuma stumbled, but didn’t fall. _She couldn’t have been more than two meters away_ _when she took that shot_ , Roger realized. There was no bullet vest in the world that tough. The crowd had been startled into motion by the gunshots, so whoever was holding the cell phone stumbled as they struggled to stay in place, nearly dropping their phone. They managed to catch it just in time to show the akuma delivering the punch that had cracked three of Petit’s ribs. Roger watched as the faceless figure spoke briefly to the other akuma where he laid on the ground, and then flung its arm out like a superhero’s grappling hook and leaped away.

“Like I said; the possibilities are endless,” Jacques said. “Your best bet, frankly, is to not engage and call for backup; while I commend your zeal, rushing in and treating them like any other perp is how you end up like your friends there. Now-”

“I have a question,” came a voice from behind Roger. He knew without turning that it was Molyneux; hard-headed, nobody was less willing than he to be led by the hand to a conclusion that someone else had drawn for him.

Jacques’ smile utterly failed to reach his eyes. “Alright, sure, I wasn’t finished but we can take some questions. Go ahead.”

“Where do they come from? I mean, they’re a terrorist organization, right? How do they recruit? What do they want? You can’t expect us to effectively fight these people if the only thing we know about them is that they’re dangerous and unpredictable.”

“That’s classified,” Jacques said curtly.

“Which part of it?” another officer asked.

“All of it. You’re not allowed to know where they come from. You’re not allowed to know what they want, or how they’re created, or how the powers work. You don’t need to know, and you’re better off not knowing.” Jacques leaned forwards, gripping the podium. “Everything about these things is dangerous. _Knowing_ things about them is dangerous. It puts you in danger, and it puts those around you in danger. Ignorance, gentlemen, is bliss.”

Roger took another sip of his cooling coffee, a thoughtful frown on his face.

* * *

Alya wasn’t snooping – well, she was snooping, but no more than usual. She hadn’t meant to look. They were all changing for gym class, and she’d turned around to show Marinette something funny on her phone in time to see an expanse of yellowing bruise vanish under her gym shirt. Whatever joke she’d wanted to tell died in her throat.

As they filed out of the locker room, Alya threaded her arm through Marinette’s and leaned in close to murmur in her friend’s ear. “So what happened to you?”

Marinette jumped, perceptibly. “Wha-what do you mean?” she said.

“Your back, girl! What do you think I mean? Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I just…I fell, is all,” Marinette said. “You know me! Clumsy old Marinette.” She smiled, but didn’t make eye contact. Alya, a sinking feeling in her stomach, had a sudden vision of Tom Dupain’s big, muscled hands.

“Marinette.” Alya pulled her friend to a stop, putting her hands on her shoulders and looking her in the eyes. “You know you can come to me if you’re ever in trouble, right? Any time of day or night. My parents love you, girl. You’re like a sister to me.”

The panic in Marinette’s eyes transformed from panic at the immanent discovery of a secret to the embarrassed panic with which Alya was much more familiar. “Oh! Oh, it’s not like that, Alya, don’t worry. Really, I did just have a nasty fall. Everything’s okay.”

Alya squinted at Marinette, unconvinced. “Uh huh. Down a flight of stairs, I bet.”

Marinette cast a nervous glance at the other girls, who had left them behind and were filing towards the gymnasium. After assuring herself they were out of earshot, she turned back to Alya. “I was at the supermarket last weekend when the akuma attacked,” she said quietly. “That’s where I fell.”

“You _WHAT?!_ ” Alya screeched. Marinette frantically flailed, gesturing at her to be quiet.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you!” she whisper-yelled. “I knew you’d react like this!”

“You were a witness to the biggest scoop of the year so far and you were _holding out on me?!_ ” Alya whisper-yelled back. “You’re damn _right_ I’m gonna have a reaction to that! Tell me everything!”

“There’s nothing to tell. I was out shopping, I heard the gunshots, everyone started running, I tripped and almost got trampled. I didn’t even see anything,” Marinette said, speaking very quickly with her eyes downcast. “It was scary.”

Alya felt a pang of guilt. “Aw, jeez, girl, c’mere.” She pulled Marinette into a hug, squeezing her friend comfortingly. “Sorry for prying.”

“It’s okay,” Marinette said, patting her back. “You’re a good friend, Alya. Thanks.”

* * *

Nino had his head buried in his arms when Adrien took his seat in French Literature. He’d missed the first half of the day for a photoshoot. “Hey, Nino. Late night?”

Nino raised his head groggily. “I feel like shit, dude,” he said.

“You _look_ like shit, dude,” Adrien said, concern evident in his voice. Nino was pale, with bags under his eyes and an unhealthy sheen to his skin. Adrien pressed a hand to his friend’s forehead. “You totally have a fever. Should you even be here?”

“No,” Nino groaned. “But we have that history test today. I already had to beg the Doc to let me make up the last one, so I couldn’t stay home today.” He rubbed his eyes. “I barely slept last night, either. Weird dreams.”

“What about?”

“Can’t remember.” Nino was quiet for a moment, staring into space. “Drowning, I think.”

“I can’t even remember the last time I dreamed, Dad’s been running me so ragged,” Adrien said. “I miss having dreams.”

“Dude, too real,” Nino said, laughing. “You gotta wait to drop lines like that until you’re a middle-aged divorcee who just got passed over for a promotion.” He winced, rubbing his forehead. “Ah, jeez, laughed too hard. _Wow_ , that hurts.”

“Nino, are you okay?” Marinette and Alya had just entered the classroom. Marinette’s whole face was writ with concern, her blue eyes wide. That was one of the things that Adrien admired about her – she was always looking out for people. “You don’t look so good…”

“You look like shit, dude,” Alya added, a worried frown on her face as well.

“That’s what I said!” Adrien said, gesturing at Nino for emphasis. “He’s got a fever and everything. We’ve got that history test today though, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. We were talking about it right before you walked in.”

“Just gotta make it through two more periods,” Nino said, giving his friends a weak thumbs-up. “Don’t worry about me.”

Ms. Bustier walked in, forestalling further conversation. As class began, Adrien kept a worried eye on his friend. Nino’s note-taking, which was usually quite diligent in French lit – of necessity, as it was not his best subject – was sporadic. Ordinarily a restless sort, fidgeting and shifting, his movements were sluggish and scarce.

Without much warning, Nino surged out of his seat about half an hour into class, running for the door and fleeing the classroom. “Nino!!” Ms. Bustier exclaimed, shocked. “Come back here! No running in the halls!”

“He said he wasn’t feeling well earlier,” Alya chimed in. “Looked like he was headed for the bathroom.” This inspired a huff of irritation from the teacher, but she appeared willing to accept that excuse.

* * *

Nino barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up. Yellow bile splattered into the sink as he held onto the cool porcelain like his life depended on it. He felt like he was on fire, skin hot and too tight, itching all over. He sucked in a ragged breath, and then another. His throat felt like it was closing up, like he was drowning in his own saliva. He retched again, not bringing up much more than the first time. He tried to spit afterwards, to get the taste out of his mouth, but he only succeeded in leaving a gross string of bubbles dangling from his lips. “Eugh,” he managed, and reached for a paper towel to wipe his face. Throwing it in the trash can, he turned the sink on and scooped a mouthful of water into his mouth. He swished it around and tried to spit again, but something weird happened with his mouth or his tongue or – he was very dizzy, alright? Cut a guy a break.

Anyway, when he tried to spit _this_ time, a veritable _fountain_ of thick, bubbling foam spilled out of his mouth into the sink. _What the hell?_ Nino thought wearily. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was still froth at the corners of his mouth. “Do I have rabies or something?” he asked his reflection, as though it knew what was going on any better than he did. With a grimace, he wiped his face again and turned the sink on to wash the vomit – and the foam – down the drain.

“Nino? You doing okay?” came Adrien’s voice from the door. Nino turned; Adrien had just poked his head into the bathroom, worry on his face.

“Maybe?” Nino said groggily.

“Did you just throw up?” Adrien asked, walking over briskly.

“Yes,” Nino said, not having the energy to deflect the laser-focused compassion of his best bro.

Adrien yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped Nino’s sweating forehead before testing it with the back of his hand again. “You’re burning up, man, seriously. Go home. No, better idea - I’ll call you a cab. You’re literally puking sick, and if Dr. Halicarnasse gives you shit about missing the test I can vouch for you.”

“Bro, you don’t have to do that,” Nino said, weakly grabbing for Adrien’s phone.

“My dad’s richer than God and you’re one of my, like, two friends,” Adrien said, holding Nino at bay with one hand and dialing for a cab service with the other. “Don’t worry about it, seriously. And text me when you get home so I know you made it.”

Nino let out a burp that somehow managed to sound defeated, a bubble forming and breaking across the opening of his lips. “Thanks,” he said, sagging.

* * *

Adrien grinned at himself in the mirror. He’d managed to start the transformation voluntarily this time, only half an hour after sunset. Operation: Become Masked Defender of Paris was officially underway. Step two, of course, was the mask. A little spirit gum, and a black domino mask from a costume ball he’d attended with his mother, years ago, and he was in business. He checked himself in the mirror. Yeah, sure, it wasn’t a hugely effective means of concealing his features – but between the mask, the cat eyes, the obviously inhuman ears, and the _fangs_ , he figured nobody would connect his night-time excursions with Adrien Agreste, famous model and international teenage heartthrob.

Gabriel Agreste controlled everything his son wore, carefully curating the image he presented to the public as the representative and theoretical heir to the Agreste fashion empire. Adrien had access to a credit card ‘for emergencies,’ but Gabriel monitored activity on it with the same laser-focus with which he managed all of his affairs. Therefore, any sort of custom costume work had been beyond Adrien’s resources; he’d had to make do with a sort of sporty, first-few-episodes sort of look, just assembled from what he had on hand. The domino mask was the only clue that he was supposed to be a superhero; the sleeveless black hoodie and black sweatpants said “non-safety-conscious midnight jogger” to Adrien more than anything else. His mother had always said that the perfect was the enemy of the good enough, though.

“Alright,” he said to his reflection, taking a deep breath. “Claws out.” He flicked the bathroom light off, casting his room into darkness. After the creak of his window opening, all was silent.

* * *

It occurred to Adrien, after twenty-odd minutes of leaping across the rooftops of Paris, that Paris was a big city. A _very_ big city. Pausing to catch his breath, he pulled out his phone. Ah, yes. Paris was, in fact, 105 square kilometers, with a population of over two-and-a-quarter million as of the last census; it said so right there, in the first paragraph of its Wikipedia article.

“I am such a moron,” Adrien concluded. It was all so obvious, now that he thought about it. He needed a police scanner, or that thing that Batman had in _The Dark Knight_ where he could listen through everyone’s phones, or a network of urchin informants like Sherlock Holmes - at any rate, something a little more robust than just lurking on rooftops all night. _Hell, even if I had a way to find out about crimes, how the hell am I supposed to get to them in time? I need a car or a motorcycle or something!_

The phrase ‘catmobile’ occurred to him, and he was unable to stifle a snort of laughter. “Catmobile. Cat-a-rangs. Cat-cave,” he said, shoulders shaking with mirth. “Oh, man, this would be so much easier if _I_ was the reclusive multimillionaire in my family.” Still stifling laughter at his own joke, he sank down to sit against a chimney. _So what do I do now?_ he wondered. _Guess I could go see how Nino’s doing. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen his house…_

He pulled out his phone and shot Nino a text. _Hey, what’s your address?_ There was no immediate response, so Adrien pocketed his phone again and stood up with a sigh. It had to be close to the school, so he could always loop back in that direction. He set off.

Landing on the next rooftop on all fours, he smoothly continued his run. It wasn’t until he leaped again, clearing the next street, that he realized he’d never stood back up. Movement on his fingertips and the balls of his feet had felt so natural that he hadn’t even noticed the transition. He almost tripped over himself now that he was thinking about it, though. He could feel that something had shifted in his shoulders and hips to make the smooth, feline gait possible. _I really need to come up with adjectives other than ‘feline’ to describe this stuff_ , he thought.

Without warning, a roofing tile slid loose under his hand. His arm skidded out from under him just as he set his weight on it. “Whoah!” Adrien rolled down the steep incline of the roof. As he fell over the edge into open space, his arm lashed out and snagged the gutter, which bent with a shriek but held his weight. Adrien sighed in relief, heart jackhammering. As if on cue, the gutter came loose from the wall, swinging Adrien out into space. Startled, he lost his grip, and was in heart-stopping freefall. Reflexively twisting in midair, he had time to see a café table approaching at speed. He broke his fall with all four limbs, and also broke the table, which spilled him onto the ground. Adrien was up in an instant, head swiveling as he took stock of his surroundings. He was in some sort of enclosed courtyard – belonging to a restaurant, from the looks of things. The lights were off, and the courtyard was deserted. Adrien breathed a sigh of relief. Probably the restaurant was closed and he could just sneak out with no one being the wiser. He dusted himself off and looked around for a door.

The glass double doors leading to the front of the restaurant were locked when he tried them. There was an unmarked metal door labelled ‘KITCHEN’ that he decided to try next. If this didn’t work, he’d just have to climb back out the way he came.

Just as he was about to reach for the handle of the kitchen door, however, it swung open, light flooding into the darkened courtyard. Two men in aprons, one carrying a mop, stood on the other side. “It’s probably just some stray cat that got trapped in here and knocked over a table,” the one with the mop was saying, head turned to address his friend. Then he turned and saw Adrien, and froze.

Adrien also froze. His tail bristled.

There was a moment of silence, and then everyone panicked. The restaurant worker without the mop shrieked in alarm, while his partner began yelling indecipherably and tried to hit Adrien with the mop. Adrien, for his part, pushed past the duo, shoving them aside and bolting into the brightly-lit kitchen. He rounded a corner and collided with a cart full of dishware hip-first. The cart tipped over with an uproarious clang, and Adrien yelped in pain, both from his hip and from the noise. His ears flattened against his head. Hearing the two workers running after him, he leapt up onto a table and sprinted on all fours for the door at the far end of the room. He tore it open. Alleyway. Perfect. He burst back into the night air, and scrambled for the nearby fire escape.

* * *

Nino had fallen asleep almost immediately when he’d gotten home. Rising now, hours later, he felt better, but not much. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face back in his pillow. _Just a few more minutes…hours…couple years_ , he thought.

Something slimy touched his cheek.

Grumbling, he propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing at his cheek. _Must’ve drooled while I was out. Gross,_ he though. He pried his eyes open, reluctantly. _Or…not._ Where one might have expected to find a drool stain on his pillow, there was instead a large, gooey mass of bubbles. Nino hesitantly prodded one. It didn’t pop at the touch of his finger, only jiggling slightly.

“Eugh,” Nino said, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Grody to the max.” Shrugging his covers off, he struggled to his feet, grabbing his phone and heading for the kitchen. Step one: find some paper towels and clean that shit off his pillow. Step two: never speak of this again. He checked his texts.

 _Hey, what’s your address?_ Adrien had asked, about fifteen minutes ago.

Nino texted him his address. _Whats up bro?_ he asked, autocorrect ruining his laid-back cool guy image with unwanted capitalization. Ordinarily he would have made a point of going back to manually correct it to lower-case, but his head still hurt.

 _Nothing in particular. Just realized I didn’t know_ , came Adrien’s response after a moment. Nino tore off a handful of paper towels and stumbled back to his room.

“You feeling better, honey?” came his mom’s voice from the couch in front of the TV. Nino’s wordless groan in response was correctly interpreted as a negative response. “Okay, I’ll tell the school you’re not going tomorrow, so don’t worry about it! Rest up!” his mom said.

“Thanks, Moms,” Nino said, closing the door of his room behind him.

* * *

As it turned out, peering through your best friend’s windows at night was actually not that interesting, and also made Adrien feel sort of like a creep. He couldn’t see much; there were no good handholds on the side of Nino’s building, so the closest he’d been able to get was the fire escape across the street. He’d sort of forgotten that not everyone had a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows in their palatial bedroom. The Lahiffes’ entire apartment could probably fit in his bedroom, honestly. All he could see from this angle was part of Nino’s autographed Perturbator poster and a glimpse of turmeric-orange wall, which should have been hideous but which was actually kind of soothing.

Nino passed in front of the window, his bedhead having wrought remarkable havoc given how short he kept his hair. Adrien bolted to attention at the sight of his friend, leaning out over the edge of the fire escape and craning his neck. However, Nino did not reappear, and after a moment the light in his room turned off. Adrien sagged a little. _Guess that’s all for tonight. I should probably head home anyway, I’ve still got homework to do_.

Suddenly, the railing of the fire escape gave way under Adrien’s hand. He stumbled, nearly losing his balance and going over the edge, but caught himself. “Jeez! That’s enough surprises for one night,” he muttered to himself grumpily, wiping his hands on his pants.

There was a sudden stench of mildew, and a cool breeze on his right thigh. Adrien looked down, and his eyes widened in surprise, ears pinning back against his head. There was an enormous, ragged hole in the leg of his sweatpants, its edges black-on-black with mildew. Adrien’s eyes flicked from his leg, to the railing, and he thought of the gutter and the roofing tile from earlier. He looked at his right hand, almost afraid of what he might find.

Fortunately, his flesh hadn’t started rotting off of his bones or anything. Instead, his hand was wreathed in… _darkness?_ Black energy swirled around it, darker than the dark of the night around it. If he strained his ears, he thought he could hear a faint fizzing, spitting noise, black sparks falling from his palm.

“Well, _that’s_ awesome,” he said matter-of-factly. “Cursed right hand. Power of darkness. _Extremely_ anime. I’m into it.” Experimentally, he flexed his fingers and furrowed his brows, raising his hand to eye level. The darkness in his grip _seethed_ , arcs of black lightning dancing along his fingers and up his arm. Adrien turned and pressed his hand against the wall of the building behind him. As he watched, the bricks beneath his hand cracked, and crumbled, and fell to dust. The corruption spread outwards, paint peeling and mortar loosening. Adrien snatched his hand away – he realized that he could probably tear right through the wall, or even bring the building down, at this rate. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. As he watched, the shadowy corona around his hand faded back into the ordinary darkness of the Parisian night.

Adrien did a little dance on the fire escape, unable to contain himself. He cackled with glee. “ _That is so cool!!”_

* * *

“Girl, check this out,” Alya said, roping an arm around Marinette’s shoulders and pulling her over. She held her phone up to Marinette’s face.

“Mysterious man-cat menaces restaurant staff?” she read. “Alya, what website is this from?” She plucked Alya’s phone from her hands and checked the url. “Ah, yes, _Weird Paris_ , your one-stop shop for badly photoshopped alien babies, C-list cryptid sightings, and people talking about the Illuminati.”

“Alright, yes, I hear and acknowledge what you’re saying,” Alya said, deftly plucking her phone right back. “ _But_ … there’s a video.”

“It’s probably fake,” Marinette insisted, turning her nose up.

“Just waaaatch iiiiiit,” Alya said, wagging her phone under Marinette’s nose.

With a sigh, Marinette motioned that Alya should play the video. It wasn’t long, only a few seconds, and it was both blurry and dark. Marinette could faintly see a figure clad all in black running down an alley away from the camera, then clambering up a fire escape. Her eyes widened as the figure _leaped_ from the fire escape, upwards and across the alley, to grab the edge of the roof on the opposite side – a jump of two stories, at least.

“Ha! See? You’re intrigued now,” Alya said, Marinette’s reaction not escaping her notice. She elbowed her friend in the ribs. “Did you see the tail?”

“I’m not intrigued, and that was definitely still fake,” Marinette insisted. “…and what do you mean, the tail?”

Grinning like a cat that just ate the canary, Alya rewound the video slightly and froze it. “There,” she said, pointing. And, silhouetted against the dull orange of the overcast night sky, a tail did indeed trail behind the shadowy figure as it leapt between the buildings.

“I saw it,” came a quiet word. Marinette and Alya looked up in unison, surprised. Juleka held up her phone. “Even got a photo.” She gave a tiny grin. “Lotta weird stuff out there, if you pay attention.”

“You _saw it?!_ ” Alya said, grabbing Juleka by the shoulders. Juleka’s eyes widened in alarm and she stiffened. Alya released her at once. “Oh, sorry. I forgot about the touching thing,” she said guiltily.

Juleka said nothing in response, but pulled up the photo and showed it to them. Blurry, dark, like the video – but unmistakably a figure, running on all fours across the Parisian skyline, a long and whiplike tail trailing behind it.

Marinette frowned, leaning closer. “I don’t think it’s the same person…”

“Huh?” Alya said, just as Juleka asked “What do you mean?”

“Well, look at the shoulders!” Marinette pointed. “This one’s way top-heavier than the one in the video Alya showed me. That one basically looked like a person; this is built more like a gorilla, or something. And look at its size relative to the windows on the building – it’s way bigger.”

Alya set her phone on the desk, and motioned for Juleka to lay hers down also for a side-by-side comparison. Three heads craned over the screens. “Huh,” Alya said. “You’re right! They don’t look like the same person…or creature, I guess.”

“Bummer,” Juleka said, deflating a little.

“No, this is awesome!” Alya said, her grin back at full wattage. “You realize what this means? We’ve got _three_ monsters running around Paris.”

Marinette winced at the word ‘monster,’ but Juleka’s expression was positively dreamy. “Three monsters…” she said. “Awesome.”

“Juleka, could you send me that photo?” Marinette asked, brow furrowed in thought.

“Jules, could you send _me_ that photo?” Alya said, exaggeratedly elbowing Marinette out of the way for comedic effect.

“Sure thing,” the tall girl said, smiling at their antics – and, probably, still at the thought of three whole monsters running around Paris.

“You’re a doll. An angel. The Lois Lane to my Clark Kent. I love you!” Alya called after her as Juleka returned to her seat. She turned back to Marinette. “ _So…_ admit it, there’s something real here.”

“The only thing I’m admitting is that Juleka got a real scoop while you’re recycling tabloid headlines, Mlle. Ace Reporter,” Marinette said teasingly.

Alya clapped a hand to her chest and another to her forehead, pantomiming betrayal. “Help! Police! There’s been a murder!” she said. “My own bestie, sweet innocent Marinette – stabbed me in the back! How could she?”

Marinette chuckled at Alya’s antics, but inwardly her mind was whirling. _There are more akuma out there. That’s got to be what those were. There are more of them like me._

* * *

Mylène had started looking for Ivan about a week after he disappeared. Even before the police had shelved the investigation, when her father had urged her not to worry and to let the professionals do their jobs, she’d fretted. Ivan might look big and tough, but she knew better than most that he was just a kid, scared and vulnerable like anyone else their age. Endlessly she’d replayed visions of one terrible thing or another happening to him in her mind, until it became too much to take. So she’d wandered her neighbourhood, and Ivan’s, and all of the places that he’d taken her or that she knew he liked to hang out. Some of those places were not as nice as her block; eventually Fred Haprèle had been forced to ground his daughter when she refused to hear his concerns for her safety. Not that Mylène hadn’t been scared too, of being robbed or worse. But especially after the police had stopped looking, there were more important feelings for her than fear.

These days, though, Mylène was a lot less afraid of getting mugged.

Her claws tapped absently on the gutter as she watched the people below her, her three eyes tracking independently of each other. Nobody ever looked _up_ , she’d realized. Anything could be happening just above eye level, and no one would know.

Why, for example, a big purple-skinned monster could be squatted on her haunches on a rooftop, waiting for the detective in charge of Ivan’s case, the one who’d _abandoned him_ , to leave the police station.

She didn’t know what she was hoping to accomplish with this, but she’d spent weeks watching everyone even remotely connected – Ivan’s family (griefstricken), Ivan’s friends (giving no obvious indication of having murdered him and then disposed of the body), _her_ family (Dad was skipping lunches again and thought she didn’t notice), and now finally Detective Durand. Mylène doubted Durand would be so obliging as to head right off to an abandoned warehouse to receive a big sack of money from the cabal of nefarious child traffickers in exchange for closing the investigation. Since it had been almost two weeks now since the case was shelved, if that was going to happen it had probably already happened anyway.

“Man, what are they feeding _you?_ ” came a voice from behind her. Mylène whirled in alarm – she hadn’t heard anyone approach. Perched on the peak of the roof, grinning insouciantly, was a boy dressed in all black wearing a domino mask. “Not people, I hope. Gonna have to tell you, people-eating is a no-go, if you haven’t already heard.”

Mylène, ah…panicked. The monstrous form brought a new set of instinctive reactions with it, she was finding, and the one that had just triggered was one that the skittish girl was more familiar with than others. With a retching noise, her jaw dropped and she spewed a fountain of purple goo at the black-clad intruder.

Adrien, for his part, was not expecting that, and was bowled over. The goo halted his tumble down the opposite side of the roof, though, holding him fast like an insect in amber. Meanwhile, Mylene was already three roofs away.

“Eugh!” Adrien said, his legs kicking uselessly as he tried to free himself. His arms were pinned awkwardly at his sides by the sticky glob enveloping his torso. Around his right hand, the goo began to crack and dry, crumbling into white powder. Adrien dragged his arm free, black lightning seething in his grip. “Haha! Take that, goo monster!” He made short work of the rest of the goo, scrambling to his feet, and took stock. The pants were probably salvageable. Wherever wasn’t crusted with chunks of goo on his hoodie, though, was eaten through with rot.

“I’m gonna run out of black clothes at this rate,” he said with an exasperated sigh.

* * *

“I should ask Juleka where she took that photo,” Alya said, sitting back on her haunches. Spread out before the two of them was a map of Paris, already spackled with color-coded dots of marker.

“Oh, that was her bedroom window. I recognized the building across the street,” Marinette said. “I keep forgetting you’re new to the neighbourhood.” On her hands and knees, she carefully drew a small cross on the map – green, for a confirmed sighting. “There, marked it for you.”

“You’re the best, girl,” Alya said, patting Marinette on the shoulder appreciatively. There wasn’t much material yet – black marks for unconfirmed sightings, green for confirmed. Alya had spent all afternoon scouring the internet for any and all information on the akuma, while Marinette had done the handicrafts. To the side of the map, a piece of paper with a handful of place names and dates – akuma encounters from outside Paris, even outside France – were written in color-coded ink. So far, all of the marks but one were black or green. It kept tugging at the edges of Marinette’s attention, like a toothache. The mark at the Peach Gardens shopping center.

Red, for a violent incident.

Marinette realized that Alya had said something else. “Huh? Sorry, what’d you say?” she said, scratching her head sheepishly. “I got distracted.”

“I said I’m surprised you volunteered to help me with this,” Alya said. “No offence, but you usually don’t care about my conspiracy-wall stuff.”

“No more than you care about my fashion stuff,” Marinette said with a shrug.

“Exactly!” Alya agreed. “So what’s got you so interested in this whole akuma business?”

“Well, I’ve been a lot closer to one than you have,” Marinette said. She’d intended to say it jokingly, with a grin, but it came out harsher than that. Defensive, even. The guilt that she felt as Alya’s eyes widened and her smile vanished sank down to join the guilt over the lies and half-truths that had been coiling in her gut for days.

“Hey…” Alya stretched out a cautious hand, placing it gently on Marinette’s knee. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not any more than I already have,” Marinette said, turning her eyes downward. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be weird about it.” She was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip. “It’s just such bullshit!” she burst out after a moment, startling Alya and startling herself with her ferocity. “How do they _know_ that these people are all dangerous? How is the government’s first instinct when they hear people are getting superpowers ‘Oh, I guess we better throw them all in jail?’” She pompously wagged her arms in a mocking pantomime of a bureaucrat. “It doesn’t make any _sense_ , Alya! There’s stuff they’re not telling us, and it’s bullshit.”

Alya sniffled. Marinette looked over, surprised. Her friend was positively _glowing_ , eyes watery, smile beatific. She reached out and laid a hand on Marinette’s shoulder. “Girl,” she said, voice thick with pride. “We’re gonna make a journalist of you yet.”

* * *

Marinette realized that she wasn’t interested in keeping her head down anymore when she found herself sketching costume ideas instead of doing her homework. A sleeveless, high-collared red top, in the style of motorcycle leathers, paired with black jodhpurs – no, too macho. With a chuckle, she added a katana slung over the figure’s back to complete the ensemble. Form-fitting spandex was a classic, but she was nowhere near confident enough in her body to pull that off. Maybe something sporty…and since whatever the suit was made of wouldn’t be as tough as her skin anyway, less cloth meant less work on repairs. Her pencil paused in the middle of sketching a red-short-shorts over black leggings ensemble.

“What am I doing?” she asked herself, quiet desperation in her voice. She reached for the corner of the page to tear it out of her sketchbook and crumple it, but something stopped her. _You can’t risk sticking out,_ she told herself. _Not now, not after what you’ve done_. _And it’s not safe – for you or your parents. What if the powers make you go crazy? What if that’s why the government says that the akuma are too dangerous to be allowed out in public? What if they’re already driving you crazy – what if I totally overreacted that day at the supermarket and I just can’t admit it to myself?_

The eraser of her pencil drummed rhythmically against the paper as Marinette fretted. _Well, hang on. If I’m too much of a coward to turn myself in, then it’s probably better for me to quickly go crazy in public and get shot by the cops than it is for me to slowly go crazy in private and, like, murder my parents and absorb them into my horrifically expanding shoggothic bulk like at the end of Akira. Though who’s to say that I_ **_will_ ** _go crazy if I don’t use my powers? I can just…be normal, and wait for this to blow over!_

“Yeah, just sit and be scared for the rest of your life,” she said acidly to her empty room. “Because that’s worked out for you so well so far. Can’t even have a normal human conversation with the most perfect boy in the world because you’re too much of a mess.” She closed her sketchbook with a sigh, collapsing backwards onto her chaise lounge. Staring up at the underside of her bed loft, she stretched out her arm above her. One by one, she let her fingers droop bonelessly backwards in their sockets, and then straightened them again, rippling like the fins of a cuttlefish.

 _I don’t want to have to deal with this alone_ , she realized. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Alya, or doubted that her best friend would have her back no matter what…but she couldn’t tell her about this. She couldn’t talk to her parents either. The only people she could really talk to about this whole thing were the others like her. Other akuma. Letting her arm fall to her chest, she clenched her hand in a fist decisively. _I’ve got to find them, before everyone else finds us._

A quick rummage through her drawers didn’t turn up much as far as costume materials went. Marinette would not have described her aesthetic as “sporty” – she was more into soft pastels and floral prints than she was bold primary colors, and when she’d had to drop her aikido classes to keep up with her studies she’d more or less stopped exercising entirely. She made do with her school gym sneakers, a pair of black yoga pants, and a heather-grey hoodie. _We can work on the outfit later_ , she comforted herself as she stood in front of her mirror. She took a deep breath. “Alright,” she told her reflection, sounding braver than she felt. “Spots on.”

The red-and-black covered her skin in the space of a few heartbeats. Marinette leaned in to examine herself. This close, she could see that it was textured rather than smooth, almost like the surface of a basketball. She inspected her hands, a thought occurring to her. _Huh. No fingerprints. That’s convenient_. She looked back up at the featureless expanse of her face, and concentrated for a moment. The black lids over her eyes slid to the side, and the polka-dotted hide retreated to the shape of a domino mask around her eyes. “There we go. That’s much less scary,” she said with a smile.

“Mom, I’m going out for a bit, I left something at Alya’s!” she called down through the trapdoor.

“Okay, dear, be safe! Take your phone with you!” her mother answered.

“Sure thing!” Alibi obtained, Marinette clambered up through the hatch in her ceiling onto the roof. A cold breeze stirred her hair. It was a full moon, so at least visibility was good. Marinette took a deep breath to steady herself, and then clambered up the chimney stack at the rear of the building, limbs elongating so that she looked for a moment like a stick insect. The rooftops of Paris spread out before her like the black, moon-lit waves of an unfamiliar sea.

Marinette leapt forwards, and was off.

* * *

“Hey, Nino, you sure you’re feeling alright?” Alya said, snagging him by the shoulder as class was dismissed for lunch. Nino was back in school after only a day and a half, but his color hadn’t improved much and the bags under his eyes were truly profound. Alya had noticed him scratching at his palms all day, too, as though they hurt. Nino wasn’t usually the type to run himself so ragged; Alya was concerned about him, with an intensity that she hadn’t expected. His grades must be worse than she realized if he couldn’t even afford to miss two full days of class.

“Adrien said the same thing earlier,” Nino said, rolling his eyes. “I promise, I might look all _Night of the Living Dead_ but I feel fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure? Because Adrien and I can give you our notes for French lit and history, and I know Max is in your chemistry class so I can get the notes from him for that…”

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Nino insisted, shrugging her hand off of his shoulder. “Don’t treat me like I’m dying or whatever.” He turned to head for his house, waving over his shoulder. “Later!”

“Later!” Alya said, waving back even though Nino’s back was turned. She stopped after a moment, and felt silly. “Jackass,” she said with a scowl. “Not even a thank you. _Boys!_ ” Fuming, she pulled out her phone to check her blog feed. As she did, though, there was a disorienting moment. Rainbow coronas bloomed around the phone in her vision, and her ears were suddenly filled with a sound that was not a sound. She swayed, the ground feeling like it was tilting under her. When she blinked, the colors were gone. The only sounds were the normal city sounds – traffic, and the chatter of her classmates. “Whoah,” she said, holding a hand to her forehead. “That was weird.” A thought occurred to her, and her head snapped up to look after Nino, but he had already vanished around a corner. “Oh, you better hope you didn’t give me whatever you had,” she said, eyes narrowing.

* * *

It was a beautiful night, albeit a biting one – a cold wind drove scattered wisps of cloud across the sky. It had rained that morning, but a day of steady wind had left the rooftops dry as bone. Perfect, as far as Adrien was concerned. On a night like tonight, the thing to do was _run_. He leaped over an alleyway, landing without breaking stride, and clambered to the highest spot on the next roof to take in the view. The light of the full moon cast the sea of roofs in silver.

And then, for a moment, time stopped.

If he’d looked an instant later, he would have missed it. Silhouetted against the moon, leaping from one rooftop to the other, was another figure. An impossible leap – impossible distance, impossible grace. He felt a thrill run down his spine. It could only be someone else like him. Another akuma. He let out a whoop of exhilaration, throwing his hands in the air. Time to catch a bad guy – or, just maybe, find a teammate. And, hopefully, not get slimed this time.

* * *

Marinette heard the other person before she saw them. The November wind carried a caterwauling cry to her ears as it tossed her hair into her face. She came to a halt, balanced on the peak of a roof, and turned towards where she thought the sound had come from. At first, there was nothing; the orange glow of the streetlights from below, the blue-black of the rooftops beneath the full moon, the whistling wind. Then, blink-and-you-miss-it, a shadow fell from a stubby tower and leaped across a street, vanishing into a tangle of gables. Marinette’s eyes widened. A regular person could have made that jump, _maybe_ – but something told her that a regular person hadn’t. Marinette set off towards the last place she’d seen the shadow.

* * *

People didn’t really look _up_ , Adrien was realizing. Understandable, at street level – but one would think that running around the rooftops would lead to greater attention to the three-dimensionality of the environment. He prowled along the low wall at the edge of a flat-roofed office building, watching the other akuma on the lower building across the street. After chasing towards them for a few minutes, he’d realized that he’d overshot them and they’d changed course. Then, as he caught a glimpse of them clambering up an antenna to look around, he’d realized that they must have spotted him too. Adrien had quashed the moment of fear that this realization had inspired in him. _Who doesn’t love a challenge, after all?,_ he’d thought. But now he had the upper hand again.

A witty greeting died in his throat, though, as the other akuma stepped into the pool of light from the industrial bulb set over a rooftop door. His first thought was _it’s a girl!_ His second thought was _holy shit, that’s the akuma from the supermarket attack_ . His enhanced night vision came at the cost of reduced color perception, but in the harsh halogen light he could clearly see the bright red of her costume – no, he realized, of her _skin_. Adrien’s heart rate kicked up several notches. This was it. A real supervillain. This time, he wouldn’t get caught by surprise.

* * *

Marinette was beginning to feel less like the hunter and more like the deer as she picked her way through the maze of rooftops. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of the shadowy figure again, but there was a pricking feeling on the back of her neck. She’d thought that the other akuma might have been looking for her, too – now she was sure of it.

 _Stupid, Marinette_ , she rebuked herself. _Go out by yourself at night to hunt for_ **_supervillains_** _, and you’re surprised they might not have your best interests at heart?! You’re an idiot, and you’re gonna get yourself killed._

The only warning Marinette had for the attack was her legs giving out from under her. Then her hips. Then her spine. In fact, her whole body liquefied, dropping her to a puddle on the gravel rooftop. Time seemed to slow as, above her, a black-clad figure pounced through the space she’d just occupied. Marinette watched as – _a boy, he can’t be much older than I am_ – the other akuma’s surprised gaze turned downwards towards her as he sailed overhead. There was an electric moment as she met his bright green, slit-pupilled eyes, his lips slightly parted in a comical expression of befuddlement.

Then he face-planted on the rooftop.

* * *

Adrien didn’t know what he’d been expecting. It probably hadn’t been for the girl – _akuma_ , he reminded himself – to literally drop out of sight just as he pounced, even though her back had been turned and he was sure she hadn’t heard him approach in the shadows. It _certainly_ hadn’t been for her to catch his gaze, as he sailed over her head like an idiot, with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen. The expression of surprise on her face, pink lips slightly parted, did very funny things to his heart in the space of the half-second that their gazes met.

After all of that, face-planting in the gravel was only to be expected. And, as he picked himself up with a groan, the foot slamming into his ribs and sending him rolling across the rooftop came as no surprise whatsoever. Adrien rolled with the impact and sprang to his feet, fists up in what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a fighting stance. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. “Give it up, akuma,” he said with more bravado than he felt. “I’m here to take you in.”

Anger darkened the girl’s face before the red-and-black spread out from her domino mask to conceal her features, her blue eyes vanishing as the mask closed over them. “Go ahead and try,” she said, voice grim.

Adrien blinked. He’d been kind of hoping she would surrender. Oh well. Time to make a fool of himself, he guessed. He took a breath, and charged.

* * *

If she hadn’t been so hacked off, Marinette would have laughed at the way her opponent telegraphed the swipe of his clawed hand at her. Even out of practice as she was, she leaned to the side to dodge his strike, hands coming up to grab his wrist. A simple twist, and a turn of the hips, and he was off-balance and stumbling past her. Spinning with him, she brought her knee up to the small of his back and slammed him to the ground, giving him a faceful of gravel for the second time in less than a minute. She twisted his wrist a little further, locking his arm in a position that she sincerely hoped was _very_ uncomfortable.

“Ow, ow, ow, I yield!” the boy yelped beneath her. Marinette blinked, and stopped twisting. That had been easier than she’d expected. There was a moment of silence. “…You’re supposed to let me up now,” the boy said hopefully.

“I am not going to do that,” Marinette responded, voice flat.

At this, the boy struggled to escape, trying to push off the ground with his free arm and wrench his trapped arm from her control. He was surprisingly strong – Marinette almost lost her hold, more from surprise than anything. She slammed her knee into his kidneys again, driving him back to the rooftop, and twisted his arm again for emphasis. “I will tear your arm out of its socket, you…you _jerk!_ ” she said, cheeks hot with anger. “What is your _problem?_ ”

“What’s- what’s _my_ problem?” the boy exclaimed. “I’m not the one who goes around _putting cops in the hospital_ _!_ ”

“No, you apparently just attack random strangers who weren’t doing anything to you in the middle of the night!!” Marinette snapped back. “Anyway, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She huffed angrily.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve got a very good excuse, just like every other criminal,” he said waspishly. “You won’t get away with it forever. Even if I can’t stop you, someone else will.”

There was a limit to how much further Marinette could twist his arm without being guaranteed to tear something, so she settled for jabbing him with her knee again. “Shut up,” she said, lips pulled back in a snarl. “I’m not the one who pulled a gun on a teenage girl and an old man who was having a medical emergency.”

The boy didn’t respond to that right away. After the second beat of silence, Marinette took it as an invitation to continue. “Oh, they didn’t mention that on the news? What a _goddamn surprise_. ‘Akuma clashes with police officers in 21 st Arrondissement’ sounds way better than ‘Old man who just happens to be an akuma needs help, but instead everyone stands around with their _stupid phones out_ until the cops show up and try to _arrest him_ for _no reason!!_ ’” Marinette realized that she was shouting. “Your big, strong, brave police officers decided that this _dangerous menace to public security_ who _wasn’t even hurting anyone_ was soooo important that they had to start whaling on people with their stupid clubs and then _open fire in the middle of a crowd of civilians!!_ What if they’d missed?! What if they’d hit someone who _wasn’t bulletproof_ , huh? Ever think of that? Because they apparently didn’t!”

“…I didn’t hear about any of that,” the other akuma said after a moment.

Marinette snorted. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“You’re bulletproof?”

“I _might_ be bulletproof. At least some of the time. I’m not sure. There was this…you know what, nevermind, that’s none of your business!” Marinette said.

There was another moment of quiet, neither of them quite sure what to say. “Could you let me up now?” the boy asked quietly. “I promise I won’t try to attack you again.”

Marinette thought for a moment, and then released him. “Oughtta turn _you_ into the police, you’re such a big fan of them,” she muttered to herself angrily. The other akuma had clearly heard her, and he had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his head as they stood. Marinette looked him up and down. Oh – that was _fur_ , not clothing. And those were cat ears and – yep, there it was – a tail. “Wait,” she said, realization striking. She pointed at him. “You’re the cat-man! From the restaurant! My friend showed me the video of you!”

The boy huffed, planting his hands on his hips. Marinette blinked. Was that a – that was a _Gabriel-brand hoodie_. With the _sleeves torn off_. She had…so many questions. “ _Chat Noir_ , if you please,” the other akuma said haughtily. He sketched a bow. “At your service, my lady.” Marinette raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, then realized that he couldn’t see it because she still had her full-face mask up. She retracted it to the domino form, and then quirked her eyebrow at him again. He grinned, evidently not discouraged in the slightest. “What should I call you?” he asked.

Marinette thought for a moment. “…Ladybug,” she said. “Call me Ladybug.”

“Ladybug,” Chat Noir repeated, trying the word out in his mouth. “It suits you.” He flashed her a brief, dazzling grin. It was gone as quickly as it came, though, and his face adopted a hesitant expression. “Hey, if you’re okay with talking about it…” he began. “I mean…I guess I should hear your side of the story. From someone who was there.”

Marinette sighed. She walked a short distance away and sat down against a low wall, motioning for Chat Noir to follow her. He leapt up onto the wall, lounging catlike above her. Marinette was unable to suppress a chuckle at his antics. She craned her neck back, looking up him for a moment. His green eyes were wide, ears cocked forwards in a posture that was so feline that it was, frankly, adorable. Marinette dropped her eyes again, looking straight ahead at nothing in particular, and began. Slowly, the whole story emerged. Grocery shopping. The jigsaw-puzzle man. The police. After.

“I’m just…I’m so sick of lying to everyone about it,” Marinette said. “I feel like I’m manipulating everyone into feeling sorry for me because I’m traumatized or whatever, but nothing even that bad happened to the fake me in my cover stories! The only thing that happened to her was she heard some gunshots and got stepped on a few times. I can’t even talk about what’s _really_ bothering me, or I’ll go to jail!” She threw up her arms in frustration.

“Well, I feel like a huge asshole now, first off,” Chat Noir said wryly, after she had finished. “So you’ve got that going for you at least.” He rolled off of the ledge and sat next to her, their shoulders not quite touching. He studiously avoided eye contact as he spoke. “I can’t claim to be in your situation, but I know a little bit what it’s like to not be able to talk about what’s bothering you. My dad’s…not really interested in my problems. Heck, he’s not really interested in me _having problems_ , as a concept. That doesn’t fit his _vision_.” Chat threw up sarcastic air quotes around the word ‘vision', a mocking sneer on his face. “And, I mean…I guess I get what you’re saying, about feeling like you don’t deserve everyone’s sympathy. It’d be different, if…if they knew.” He looked down at his hands, his fingers interlaced. “But something really scary did happen to you. Even if your parents and friends don’t know what it really was, it’s not as though you don’t deserve them caring about you.”

“Something traumatic happened to those two cops, too,” Marinette reminded him, guilt and anger writ in her voice and on her face.

Chat shrugged. “They started it. Obviously I’m not the most reliable moral compass around, but if you ask me you did the right thing.”

Marinette sighed, sinking lower against the wall. “I wish I was as sure as you were.”

An alarm beeped from Chat’s hoodie pocket. He pulled out his phone. “Ah, shoot, it’s that late already – hey, is that a crack?” He examined a tiny crack in the corner of the screen, ears drooping. “Dang it…”

“You should probably get a better phone case if we’re gonna make me slamming you into rooftops a regular thing,” Marinette said teasingly.

“Oooh, my lady,” Chat purred. “That sounds paw-sitively delightful.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, the width of his grin indicating that he was entirely too pleased with himself. Marinette firmly planted her hand on his face and shoved him backwards.

“Behave, kitty.”

“No, but seriously,” he said, springing back upright. “When can I see you again? You’ve gotta teach me how to not go down like a chump next time I have to square up against a villain. Ooh, we should swap numbers so we can get in touch with each other easier! And you can add me as a friend on social media! And-”

Marinette held a finger to his lips, shushing him. “That’s not a good idea,” she said brusquely. Chat’s smile crumpled in an instant, his ears sinking. His lip – damn it, his lower lip was actually _wobbling_ , and he was giving her _kitty-cat eyes_. Who the hell authorized this? “Not the doing-this-again bit,” she hastily clarified. “The swapping numbers. And the social media thing. I don’t think we should know each other’s real names.”

Chat blinked. “Why not?”

“So if they catch one of us, we can’t rat each other out,” Marinette said simply. “I can’t tell them who you are if I don’t _know_ who you are. I assume you don’t look like…that... all the time, anyway, or else they’ll be able to find you without my help.”

“No, just at night. I turn back when the sun rises,” Chat said, confirming her hypothesis. “And I’d never snitch on you!!” He put a hand to his chest in an exaggerated display of woundedness. “Cat’s honor.”

“You don’t know that,” Marinette said. “But I _do_ know that I absolutely would.” Her voice was level and her face grim as she said it. “I have a family. I’ve got people I care about. So do you, I hope. That’s leverage, hanging over me.”

From the expression on his face, Marinette could tell Chat hadn’t considered that. “…I guess you’re right,” he said after a moment. “Dangerous days, huh?”

Marinette gave a mirthless chuckle of agreement. “But we can use a secure messaging app to keep in touch, or something,” she said. “Like journalists do when they’re reporting on dictatorships. My friend Al-” She caught herself before Alya’s name slipped out. “My friend’s always telling me about stuff like that,” she finished weakly. “I’ll do some research and get back to you.”

“How will I find you in the meantime?” Chat asked.

Marinette tapped her chin, thinking. “We should arrange a time and place to meet. What are you doing this weekend?”

“For you? I’ll clear my schedule,” the boy said with a grin.

“Saturday night,” Marinette said, rolling her eyes. “Think you can make it to the corner of d’Arcole and Cloitre-Notre-Dame? Meet me on the roof, obviously.” _Right next to Notre Dame, so he’ll be able to find it easy enough, and not a long run for me but still far enough away from my house that it won’t clue him in to where I live,_ she thought.

Chat nodded decisively. “What time?”

“Say 10:30?” Marinette said.

“Then it’s a date.” He winked at her.

“If it’s a date, then I’m gonna stand you up,” Marinette said tartly, crossing her arms.

“Not a date, then! Not a date.” Chat raised his hands placatingly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“Wow, you must be really good at making things weird if you can do it without even trying,” Marinette said, smirking. She flicked his nose gently, and turned to leave. “I’ll see you Saturday, _chaton_.”

“See you Saturday, Ladybug,” Adrien said softly to himself, watching as the akuma girl leaped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My current intention is to post one chapter, of comparable length to the previous two, per week. This is an intention rather than a promise, though; I hope you all will bear with me. I anticipate at this stage that the complete fic will be around 20 chapters long.
> 
> If any dialogue or scene transitions in this chapter were confusing, please don't hesitate to let me know; indeed, don't hesitate to share any feedback, positive or negative.


	3. The Bruel Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mylène asks some pointed questions, and finds herself in a sticky situation. A mysterious figure makes an appearance.

_He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster._

\- Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_

* * *

Mylène stared up at the closed door, fidgeting. She took a long, shaky breath to calm herself. It didn’t work – she could feel the panic rising in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut, she softly mumbled her calming song to herself. “Smelly wolf, smelly wolf, trapped in the stinky hut. Smelly wolf, smelly wolf, I’m gonna kick your butt…”

Her calming song helped, as it usually did. Mylène opened her eyes, jaw set firmly. She looked quickly up and down the hallway to make sure no one else was around. No one was – just her, and the door to apartment number 32. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she began her transformation.

From the outside, it looked like purple goo emerged from every pore on her body, enveloping her in an instant. It swallowed her face, her clothes, her hands and feet, and continued to flow. The number on the apartment door steadily fell to eye level with her, and then below; her monstrous form was at least two meters tall, and twice as broad as she was across the shoulders. The whiplike tail that had sprouted from her hindquarters lashed nervously behind her as she stepped towards the door. Raising an immense, clawed hand, she gave a gentle knock.

“Monsieur Durand?” she called hesitantly, the teenage girl’s high voice incongruous coming from the looming creature. There was no response, but she could hear footsteps inside the apartment moving toward the door. She wasn’t sure if her monstrous form even had a heart, but if it did, it felt like it was pounding at about a million beats per minute. This was it. The point of no return.

The door swung open. “Yeah, how can I help you-” began Inspector Durand of the _Préfecture de Police de Paris_ before Mylène shoved her way into the apartment, sending the man stumbling backwards. She slammed the door shut behind her – _loud, too loud, someone will come looking_ – movements clumsy with panic. Durand didn’t hesitate, reaching for a vase of dead flowers from a table in the entry hallway and throwing it at her head. Mylène ducked, and bull-rushed the detective, bowling him over. Durand rolled with the impact, springing smoothly to his feet again – _wow, he’s pretty light on his feet for a middle-aged guy_ , Mylène had time to think – just in time for a gob of purple slime to slam him against the striped wallpaper of his apartment, trapping him there.

An electric chill ran over Mylène’s skin as she stalked towards the trapped man. The floor creaked under her weight as her monstrous form swelled, drinking in Durand’s fear like cool water. She pointed a clawed finger at him accusingly. “Why did you shelve the Bruel case?”

* * *

Martin Durand’s evening wasn’t going to plan. From the looks of things, though, neither was the monster’s. Now that Durand could get a good look at her, she looked like something out of a kid’s drawing. Bright purple, three eyes, fangs poking out upwards and downwards. What might have been cute, hung on a fridge and rendered in crayon, was a little less so standing in the flesh in his apartment.

“Ivan Bruel! The missing boy, from the 21st arrondissement,” she said, sounding like she wasn’t sure whether to be hurt, outraged, or afraid that he hadn’t immediately known what she was talking about. “You told his parents the investigation was over two weeks ago.”

Durand thought for a moment. “Oh, _Bruel_ ,” he said, suddenly remembering. “The fat one who always looked pissed off. Yeah, that was my case.” He paused for a moment, looking the monster up and down. “What’s your interest, anyway?”

“N-none of your business,” she snapped. “Now answer my question!” She raised a clawed hand. “You’re scared of me, I can see it.”

 _Ah,_ Durand thought. _She has no idea what she’s doing._

“I’m scared of a lot of things, sweetheart,” he said dryly. “Stomach cancer, for example. Runs in the family. You sure you wanna know about the Bruel case? Whatever answers you’re looking for, I guarantee roughing me up isn’t gonna get em.”

“Shut up,” the monster growled. “I don’t need you to talk to me like I’m twelve. Tell me why you stopped looking.”

Durand sighed. “Lack of evidence,” he said, bluntly. “Leads dried up.”

“ _Lack of-_ ” the monster said, irate. Durand cut her off.

“Listen, you wanna hear some fun facts about missing children?” he asked. “Because I do this for a living, so I know a lot of fun facts. Most missing-person cases are solved in a couple days, at most. Grandma’s got dementia and she wanders off one afternoon, you track her down by the side of the road a couple hours later. You think your kid’s missing, and he actually was just over at a friend’s house and didn’t tell you. Stupid shit like that. A little less than half of all kids who go ‘missing’ turn up none the worse for wear pretty soon. Of the ones that _stay_ missing, the single biggest category – again, little less than half of all the kids that go missing – is runaways. They don’t _wanna_ be found, and they don’t wanna come home.”

Durand was warming to his subject, now, a little bit of heat coming into his voice. The monster was less interested. “Get to the point,” she said.

“The _point_ is that only like one out of every ten ‘missing’ kids is actually kidnapped,” Durand said. “And nine out of ten of _those_ are taken by a family member – divorced mom decides she’s sick of waiting for her custody weekend, or whatever. It is _extremely fucking rare_ for a kid to just get grabbed off the street by a total stranger – and when they are, they’re usually dead inside of a day. I heard someone say once that if a kid really gets snatched, you’ve got about three hours to find them.”

“So what are you saying, are you saying he’s dead?” the monster demanded, sounding a little panicked at the thought.

"If he was dead, we would have found the fucking body, sugar,” Durand said, throat burning with the ugly pleasure that he always felt whenever anyone else had to stare the shit he dealt with in the face. “Hiding ‘em ain’t as easy as they make it look on TV. What I’m saying is this; Ivan Bruel ain’t with any of his relatives, we checked. He ain’t with his friends. He wasn’t in a gang, he didn’t do drugs, he wasn’t mentally handicapped or schizophrenic. And as far as we know he ain’t dead.” Though his arms were pinned at his sides by the goo, Durand shrugged as expressively as he was able. “Statistically speaking, Ivan Bruel _wanted_ to go missing.”

The monster seemed taken aback at that. “No, he…” she began.

“So who are you, anyway? Classmate? Cousin? Is this like a _Phantom of the Opera_ type deal where you fell in love with him from the sewers ‘cause he was real good at that screaming that the heavy metal bands do?” Durand grinned. “You think I closed the case because I don’t care or something? Nobody cares about your baby boy like you do, huh? Or, what, maybe it’s even worse – maybe you think I’m taking payoffs from the kiddy-diddlers to keep quiet. Believe it or not, you’re not even the first person to try to threaten me at home because you didn’t like the way I was doing my job.”

“Shut up!” the monster shouted, slamming her hands to the wall on either side of her head. Her fangs were very large up close, but Durand had hit his stride.

“Did you know that Ivan’s doctor got in touch with child welfare services a couple days before he disappeared?” the detective asked, quietly. “Yeah. Because I did. And Ivan’s parents knew it too. If I was you…I might be looking a little closer to home.” If his hands had been free, the detective would have tapped his nose meaningfully there, but he had to make do with an eyebrow-raise.

The monster’s three pupils were pinpricks. “You’re lying,” she said, backing away from him. A wash of electric-blue energy flowed over her skin, and before Durand’s eyes she seemed to shrink – no, he realized, she actually _did_ shrink. She lost a good half a meter, in fact.

“Well, sure, I’d say about anything if a giant purple monster smashed its way into my apartment and threatened me,” Durand said. “Wouldn’t you? But I’m not lying.” He bent his wrist to point at the monster for emphasis. “You wanna know what happened to Ivan Bruel? Ask his parents.”

The monster didn’t say anything, staring at him. Her tail lashed behind her, like a cat’s. Durand met her gaze, doing his darnedest not to blink. The silence stretched. Then, without another word, the monster walked over to his window, opening it with a surprisingly delicate touch. She clambered out, scaling the side of the building as easy as a gecko, and was gone.

Durand heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and hit one of his speed-dials. He tapped the speakerphone button with his thumb and waited for the dial tone to end.

The line clicked as the call went through. “Hey, Captain,” Durand said conversationally. “You are not going to _believe_ what just happened to me.”

* * *

_How do I even have this conversation?_ Mylène wondered to herself, head spinning as she bounded across the rooftops. ‘ _Hey, M. and Mme. Bruel, I’m your son’s girlfriend and also a terrifying goo monster, and by the way did he run away from home because you were abusing him?!’ That’s a great idea. Just…frickin’ great._

Mylène hadn’t noticed anything different about Ivan in the days before he’d stopped showing up to school. She’d replayed every conversation they’d had that week a thousand times in her head – he hadn’t seemed sad, or afraid, or angry. He was supposed to come over to her house that weekend; he was going to play Zombie Skull Crushers’ newest album for her and give her the song-by-song commentary and explain it in the context of the rest of their discography, and then they were going to get ice cream and watch cartoons all afternoon. She wanted to protest, and say that Ivan was sure to have told her if he was having trouble at home or if anything was bothering him…but at the same time, that was the sort of thing that she could see him being embarrassed about admitting, even to himself. For someone with such a big heart, who was good at talking about other peoples’ feelings, Ivan had a lot of trouble talking about himself sometimes – especially about things that were bothering him. And they’d barely been going out for a month – Mylène still felt kind of silly calling herself his ‘girlfriend’, like she was putting on airs or making a mountain out of a molehill. _Maybe I wasn’t that close to him after all…_ she thought, a hollow feeling in her gut.

At some point in her musings, she’d arrived. The Bruels’ apartment was across the street; golden light spilled into the dark street from its kitchen window, and she could see Ivan’s father sitting at the table, a beer in one hand and his head in the other. Mylène’s claws tore chips from the bricks at the edge of the roof as she fidgeted with nervousness and anger. She sighed, closing her eyes. _The detective could have been lying_ , she reminded herself. _I **know** M. and Mme. Bruel. They’ve been heartbroken ever since Ivan disappeared. I don’t need to go in there guns blazing. I can at least…I can ask them about it first. And…and if they **did** hurt him…_

Mylène wasn’t sure what she would do, if Ivan’s parents had really had anything to do with his disappearance. She wasn’t going to find out sitting on a rooftop, though. After a quick glance up and down the street to make sure no one was watching, she crept down the side of the building head-first, shedding her transformation as she went. By the time she reached the ground, she looked like an ordinary _collège_ girl again.

* * *

“Mylène?” Sophie Bruel said, surprised, when she opened the door to her apartment. “What’s the matter, dear? Does your father know you’re out this late?” she asked, not unkindly. Ivan’s mother wasn’t much taller than Mylène, with frizzy brown hair and eyes that seemed perpetually tired, these days.

“He’s got rehearsal tonight, ma’am,” Mylène said, truthfully. “Can I come in? There’s…um, I wanted to ask you about something. M. Bruel too, if that’s alright.”

“Who is it?” she heard Ivan’s father call from inside the apartment, as if on cue.

“It’s Mylène, dear, Mylène Haprèle. Ivan’s friend,” Mme. Bruel said over her shoulder. “You remember her.” She turned back to Mylène. “Of course, sweetheart, come on in.” She stood to the side, allowing Mylène to enter the apartment.

“Have you eaten?” Ivan’s mother asked, walking back over to the stove. “I made too much tonight, if you’re still hungry.” _I still forget I’m cooking for two_ , was the unspoken subtext.

“I’m alright, thank you. Please don’t trouble yourself,” Mylène said, although she hadn’t had dinner and was quite hungry. She took a seat at the table, across from Ivan’s father, who was looking at her with curiosity rather than hostility or wariness.

“So what brings you down here tonight, Mylène?” M. Bruel asked, gesturing at the humble apartment.

Mylène fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, looking down. “I wanted to ask you something about Ivan,” she said quietly. She didn’t look up, but she could feel the room go very still at the mention of his name. “Someone…someone told me today that about half of all kids that go missing have run away from home,” she said, the words coming quickly as she repeated what Durand had told her earlier. “Only about one in ten are taken, and only about one in ten of _those_ are taken by a stranger. Do you…do you think Ivan might have run away?”

Ivan’s mother didn’t say anything. After a moment, Mylène heard dishes begin to clatter as she began tidying up. Ivan’s father sighed, and took another sip of his beer. “Of course we’ve thought about it,” he said. There was no anger in his voice, just tiredness. “It was the first thing I thought. Hell, I spent my share of nights sleeping rough as a kid, and it wasn’t even always ‘cause my dad had smacked me around a little too much.” He was quiet for a moment. “But we hadn’t…we hadn’t even argued in a while. He seemed happy, you know? Ivan’s a lot like me – likes to be his own boss, doesn’t like anyone telling him what to do. So we’ve butted heads our fair share. Not enough room under the roof for two men of the house.” He managed a sad chuckle at that. “So yeah, there were times I wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t come home. But he always did anyway – and we weren’t having one of those times when he…when he didn’t.”

 _Of course, that’s what you **would** say if you had been fighting,_ Mylène thought, but her gut wanted her to believe that the confusion and sadness she heard in M. Bruel’s voice were genuine. She looked up to see the big man staring at his callused, work-scarred hands.

“What makes you ask about Ivan, dear?” Mme. Bruel asked, coming over to sit next to her husband and laying her hand on his arm. Seeing them together like that, looking at her, reminded Mylène why she came. She set her jaw, eyes flashing.

“I heard that child welfare services came around right before Ivan vanished,” she said. There was a note of challenge in her voice, and it only shook a little bit.

Ivan’s parents went very still again. “Who told you that,” Ivan’s father said, face darkening.

“Is it true?” Mylène said, hands clenched into fists around the hem of her shirt.

Ivan’s father took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and very deliberately crushed the beer can in his hand. “I would never hurt my son,” he said, voice tight. “And I would never allow anyone else to hurt my son. It was those _damn doctors_ -” The crumpled beer can clattered to the table as Ivan’s father gripped his head in his hands, teeth gritted and veins standing out on his forehead. “Ivan was _sick_ , and when they couldn’t fix him they decided it had to be _our_ fault.”

“Ivan was sick?” Mylène said. “He did…he didn’t say anything to me.” Her mind unhelpfully supplied visions of a terminally ill Ivan walking off into the night to spare his parents the pain and expense of watching him slowly die; she chastised herself for being melodramatic.

Ivan’s mother laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Bruno, go lie down. You’ve got an early morning tomorrow, and you know I worry about your blood pressure when you get angry. I can talk to Mylène.”

Ivan’s father didn’t say anything, but let out a shaky breath. He stood from the table and left the kitchen, without looking at Mylène. Ivan’s mother followed him with her eyes. Once he’d closed the bedroom door, she turned her attention back to Mylène. “It started over the summer,” she began.

* * *

_July_

“Hey, Mom?” Ivan said. “Could you come look at this?” He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, frowning and prodding at his chest.

“Sure, dear, what is it?” Sophie said, wiping dish suds off her hands on her apron as she walked over.

“Got a _lump_ ,” Ivan said, with the mildly vexed tone one might use at a cat that’s climbed up on the table. Sophie bent down to look – and, indeed, there was a visible swelling at the base of his sternum. She prodded it with a finger. It felt like there was something _hard_ underneath it. There was no reddening of the flesh to suggest inflammation.

“You’ve got breast cancer,” she informed her son dryly. “I give you six weeks to live. Better get to work on that bucket list, boyo.”

Ivan snorted with laughter. “Seriously, Mom,” he said.

Sophie tousled his hair affectionately. “Does it hurt at all?” Ivan shook his head in the negative. “Just keep an eye on it then, I guess. If it gets bigger or starts to hurt, I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment.”

Ivan nodded, still prodding at the lump with a frown.

* * *

“What the hell?” came Ivan’s voice from his room, his voice cracking on the last syllable. After a moment, he came into the kitchen, shirt pulled up and secured under his chin as he craned his neck downwards to stare at his chest. “Hey, Dad, did Mom tell you about that lump on my chest last week?”

“Nope,” Bruno said from his seat at the kitchen table. “Why, what’s up?”

"It split open today,” Ivan said, concerned. “Take a look.” He pointed. His father squatted on his haunches, putting himself at eye level with the problem. There was no blood, just a few scraps of torn skin around the edges like an emptied blister – but protruding upwards from the split in Ivan’s skin was what looked like a _rock_ , grey-brown and speckled.

“What the _hell_?” Bruno said, brows furrowed.

“I know, right?” Ivan said. “Does that look like a rock to you?”

Bruno prodded it with a finger. “Hell, son, that doesn’t look like a rock, that _is_ a rock. Does that hurt at all?”

Ivan shrugged. “No, that’s the weird thing.”

“And that was _under your skin?_ ” Bruno asked, to make sure he’d understood correctly. Ivan nodded. Bruno stood, scratching his stubble thoughtfully. “Alright, we’re taking you to the doctor.”

* * *

" _Ow!_ ” Ivan said, flinching as the doctor pulled the stone from his chest. His hand flew reflexively to the wound. The doctor inspected the rock, its lower side wet with blood, before setting it in a bag and dropping it in the biohazard bin.

“And you said that it was under your skin?” the doctor said, making a note on his clipboard. He swabbed at the bleeding crater on Ivan’s chest with a disinfectant-soaked pad, earning another grunt of pain from the boy, and slapped a large bandage on it. “Change and disinfect that once a day, and don’t pick at it,” he said brusquely, directing the last remark at Ivan.

“Yeah, there’d been a lump there for a week or so,” Bruno said. “Ivan said it split open this morning, right?”

Ivan nodded. “Yeah, after my shower.”

"Hm,” the doctor said. “Have you taken any nasty falls lately? Skateboarding, playing sports, during a fight?” Ivan shook his head no. The doctor turned to Bruno. “Does your son have a habit of scratching or picking at himself, or has he ever done so in the past?” Bruno also shook his head no. The doctor made a little _tut_ sound, as though he didn’t believe one or both of them. “Well, in any case, it’s always important to clean and wash any cuts or scrapes to make sure that no foreign matter remains lodged in the wound.” He stood up, and began putting things away. “Be sure to disinfect the wound daily, but if it does become infected I can write you a prescription for antibiotics.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Bruno asked. “My son had a _rock under his skin_ and you’re not even curious as to where it came from? You’re not going to do any tests or anything?”

The doctor raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the big man. “If you notice any more rocks mysteriously appearing in your son’s injuries, you can schedule a follow-up appointment and we’ll run some tests.”

“He already said it wasn’t an injury!” Bruno said, voice raised.

“Dad, let’s just go. Don’t worry about it,” Ivan said, pulling his shirt back on. “Maybe it happened a long time ago and it just took this long to work its way to the surface, or whatever. It’s out now.” He tugged at his father’s jacket.

Scowling, Bruno shook his head and followed his son out the door.

* * *

_August_

“Hey, sweetie, could you come help me with the dishes- _what on Earth?!_ ” Sophie said from behind him. Ivan sighed, shoulders slumping. Great. He’d been trying to avoid this. “Ivan, you said that the scab was healing up okay!” Sophie bustled into the bathroom, taking Ivan by the upper arms and spinning him to face her. What she’d thought was the scab from where the doctor had pulled the rock out, a large dark blotch on her son’s chest, she now saw was in fact a rough, hand-sized patch of… _stone_ …protruding from his skin. Now that she was this close, Sophie saw several other lumps scattered across his torso – one, on his shoulder, had torn open just like the first to reveal a jutting stone outcrop. Sophie’s head snapped up to look her son in the face. Ivan’s head was turned to the side, and he was clearly avoiding her gaze. “How long have these been showing up?” she asked him, alarmed.

Ivan shrugged. “Since the first one. The rock was already under the scab when it started to peel off.”

"Why didn’t you say anything? We have to take you back to the doctor, this could be serious!” Sophie exclaimed.

“They didn’t take us seriously last time,” Ivan said, looking at his feet. “And Dad was getting angry, like he did when they didn’t realize I had asthma and kept telling me I just needed to lose weight. It’s not a big deal, they don’t hurt or anything. I didn’t want to bother you, you’re both so busy.”

“Ivan, when the doctors didn’t realize you had asthma, you almost _died_ ,” Sophie said.

“Mom!” Ivan protested. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“We had to take you to the _hospital_!!” his mother shouted. “I’m not going to sit here and let that happen again. I’m setting up another appointment for you as soon as I can.”

* * *

_Now_

Sophie took a shuddering breath. “We went to three different doctors. None of them believed us, and they eventually…one of them said that we were _faking it for attention_ , that we were _hurting Ivan-_ ” She let out a sob, arms crossed in front of her, clutching at herself desperately. “Said it was…something or other, I don’t remember, it started with an ‘m.’”

Mylène handed her a tissue. “Munchausen syndrome by proxy?” She’d done a report on it in French Literature last year – it had come up in one of the books they were reading.

“Yeah, that one,” Sophie said, blowing her nose. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such a mess. I…Bruno and I, we both thought that Ivan might have run away because he was scared they might take him away from us , but then we didn’t hear from him at all and we…I’m so scared for him, Mylène. I’m so scared.”

Mylène didn’t respond, her mind blazing as everything suddenly clicked into place. Mysterious sickness that doctors couldn’t explain. Things growing underneath the skin, like a butterfly in a chrysalis. She had a sudden, vivid memory from a month or so ago, of trying to wash a thick, gooey clump of purple slime down the drain of the bathroom sink, after she’d woken in the middle of the night to throw it up.

_Ivan’s an akuma._

“What was that?” Sophie Bruel asked, and Mylène realized she’d said that out loud.

 _But he couldn’t have known – if he started transforming in June, that was a full five months before the announcement. So he wouldn’t have run because he was afraid of being captured…_ Mylène worried at her lip furiously. There were still too many unanswered questions, but this…well, it either didn’t change much, or it changed everything. “Mme. Bruel,” Mylène began, clearing her throat. She was interrupted by the front door to the apartment exploding.

A half-dozen police officers in full tactical gear stormed through the doorway, guns out, sweeping the room. _“Everyone on the ground, now!”_ one of them yelled.

The kitchen table knocked most of them off their feet. In a heartbeat, Mylène had shifted, catching the underside of the table with one clawed hand as she rose and sending it flipping end over end at the police. It hit the wall next to the doorframe and broke into pieces, falling to the ground. Mylène followed it up with a sustained blast of ooze, gluing the fallen officers to the floor and walls and sealing the doorway to the apartment closed. Fear was thick in the air of the apartment, visible to her like purple fog streaming from the police, from Ivan’s mother, and even from herself. Her mane of blue tentacles flattened against the ceiling of the apartment as she swelled with it, breath rumbling in her chest. She turned to Sophie Bruel, whose eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she looked up at the snaggle-fanged monster that had just replaced the teenage girl in her kitchen.

“I’m going to find him, Mme. Bruel,” she said. “I’m going to bring him home.”

Sophie didn’t say anything, but after a moment she managed a nod.

Mylène hunched her shoulders and turned towards the small kitchen window. There was no way she was going to fit out through that. She cast a final glance over her shoulder at Ivan’s mother. “Sorry for the mess,” she said sheepishly, backing up a few steps.

Then, taking a short running start and throwing an arm up in front of her face, she charged at the wall.

* * *

The shouting began almost immediately as Mylène crashed into the street, chunks of masonry scattered around her. Police cars clogged the street in both directions. She threw up a hand to shield her eyes, squinting in the light of the spotlights that quickly trained themselves on her. _How did they find me?_ she wondered, and then realized the obvious answer. _Durand. He **sent** me here. Played me like a fiddle, Mylène, you naïve, emotional **idiot**._ She felt static crackle on her skin, the fear of the assembled police officers and the neighbours now watching from their windows flooding the street like a burst fire hydrant. Mylène launched herself at the buildings on the opposite side of the street, intending to climb to freedom. Rather than landing near the top, as she’d planned, she crashed into the wall only a story or so up. Her claws dug rents in the brick as she struggled for a hold. With a grunt of annoyance, she dragged herself up, limbs burning with fearsome strength to match her new bulk.

As she crested the roof, everything went white for a moment. Mylène realized that she’d lost consciousness when she landed on her back in the street, the impact shaking the ground. Her head hurt like a triple migraine sundae. With a groan, she gingerly prodded at her face, where the pain was worst. Her fingers found a… _holy smokes, that’s a hole!_ Mylène realized. _I just got shot in the head!!_ As the tips of her claws found the hole in her face, just below her right eye, Mylène also made a timely discovery about an aspect of her gelatinous monster-form that hadn’t yet become relevant; namely, its regenerative abilities. Beneath her touch, the hole sealed itself shut, expelling the air that had rushed into the cavity created by the shot with an incongruously flatulent noise. Her head still hurt like nobody’s business, but she could at least see clearly. She staggered to her feet.

Somebody manning the police line apparently took this as a cue to start shooting, with the predictable result that everyone else followed suit. The handgun bullets stung, but Mylène could feel that they weren’t penetrating far into her ooze-bulk. The rifle bullets, however, actually hurt, even though she was gaining size by the second as the barrage of police fire failed to bring her down, which made the police even _more_ afraid of her.

Falling to all fours, Mylène _roared_ , a window-rattling blast of sound that she hadn’t even known she could produce. With a pantherine surge, she leapt over the front line of the barricade, landing heavily on a patrol car that crumpled beneath her. Another leap carried her to the rear, scattering a group of officers on foot. She tipped a police van on its side one-handed as she passed it, blocking the way after her, and charged down the open street, her weight shaking the lamp-posts.

* * *

Marinette was somehow unsurprised to see Chat Noir tracing his way across the rooftops tonight, moving on all fours along the next row of buildings over. Changing course, she skidded down the slope of the roof at an angle on her heels, flinging out an arm to catch the crossbar of a streetlamp on the opposite side of the street. Contracting her limb as explosively as she’d extended it, she swung herself down from the rooftops and used the momentum to catapult herself onto the row of buildings on the cross-street. The graceful effect was somewhat ruined by her landing – if she hadn’t flung out another arm to lasso around a chimney, she would have landed on her rear and tumbled right back off the roof.

Right on cue, Chat landed before her a moment later. He was grinning from ear to ear, an infectious delight in his bright green eyes. “Ladybug!” he said, excitedly. “That was awesome!! You came out of nowhere!”

Marinette grinned sheepishly. “I flubbed the landing a little, though,” she said. “I meant to do a backflip and stick it.”

“You were utter _purr-_ fection, my lady,” Chat said. “I didn’t expect to see you-” His words were cut off by another burst of gunfire, and a loud crash. Chat’s head snapped in the direction of the distant din, his ears swiveling.

“Can you tell what’s happening?” Marinette asked. “I assume _that_ ’s why you’re out tonight too.” She tossed her head in the direction of the ongoing commotion.

“Got it in one,” Chat confirmed. “This way, come on.” He pointed, and they were off.

* * *

Mylène had encountered an unforeseen complication.

Namely, she was stuck.

She’d known that other peoples’ fear made her monstrous form bigger; what she hadn’t anticipated was just how _much_ bigger a midnight rampage through Paris would make her. She’d been unable to flee across the rooftops because she wasn’t sure that the buildings would take her weight anymore. Not that an apartment block collapsing under her would hurt her much, if a bullet to the head hadn’t even slowed her down. The people inside were another story.

She’d tried to shift back to her human shape when she’d managed to get out of sight of the police, briefly, but she’d been alarmed to discover that she couldn’t. Ordinarily as easy as flicking a switch, it had felt like she was swimming through gelatin when she tried. She’d tried to speak, to say _please, I’m trying to not hurt you_ when three police vans had cornered her against a building, the oh-so-fragile, oh-so-tiny human officers swarming around her feet, but all that had come from her throat was a wordless, bestial yowl. So she was stuck – stuck in her monster-form, and stuck in a one-sided fight that she didn’t dare win.

She was also, however, more literally stuck. Between two buildings, specifically. She’d tried to duck down an alleyway and had underestimated how big she’d gotten. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get out if she wanted to – all she’d have to do would be to knock the buildings down. But these were _houses_. There was a _bedroom window_ right by her left eye, and the heart she wasn’t even sure this body had anymore had hammered in her chest when its inhabitant, woken by the noise, had started to cry for its parents. She didn’t dare move a muscle. Around her, the masonry creaked alarmingly.

Behind her, she heard the squawk of sirens.

* * *

“Should we do something?” Chat Noir asked her, face lit from below by the red-and-blue strobe. He looked as unsure as she felt.

“What _could_ we do?” Marinette said. “There’s got to be a dozen cars down there now. I’m not even sure I’m bulletproof all the time, let alone _that_ bulletproof.”

“Yeah. Nine lives will only get me so far,” Chat said in glum agreement. He scratched his head. “I think I met this akuma the other day. He was…smaller, though. Like about our size.”

“What happened?” Marinette asked him.

“He puked slime at me and ran away. Didn’t say anything.” He shrugged. “Found him across the street from the police station. I dunno, maybe this one really _is_ a supervillain. Maybe I interrupted him while he was plotting some sort of villainous rampage, and tonight he tried it.”

Marinette frowned. “Well, we’re definitely not going to find out once they arrest him. Assuming they can figure out how, at least.” Indeed, the police were milling about vaguely in the street below them. They’d set up blockades at either end of the street, and were urging people out of the buildings the akuma was wedged between, but they were clearly not sure what to do about the three-story monster whose legs still awkwardly protruded from the alley. Its tail twitched back and forth, like an unhappy cat’s. Marinette turned to look at Chat. His tail was twitching too, its motions a mirror of the akuma’s. She had to stifle a giggle at that.

Suddenly, there was a wash of blue static over the monster’s skin and it shrunk slightly, enough that it was no longer wedged between the alley walls. The police shouted in alarm as it surged forwards; guns left holsters. The two akuma on the rooftop across the street instinctively tensed, ready to spring into action. Then, there was another flash of light from the alley, and the monster swelled again, even larger than it had previously been. It had made it a few meters forward, no more. The buildings creaked alarmingly to either side of it; a window shattered, then another.

“Her powers are fueled by fear.”

Marinette turned at Chat Noir’s words. “What?”

The boy’s green eyes met her, wide with confusion. “I didn’t say that,” he said. A moth fluttered between them. The voice sounded again, and Marinette realized that she was hearing it in her head and not her ears.

_Her powers are fueled by fear. She grows larger the more they fear her. She’ll knock those buildings over if she continues to grow._

“Where is that coming from?” Chat asked, a note of fear entering his voice.

 _Provide a distraction,_ the voice continued, cold and commanding. _Draw the officers away. She’s terrified._ Two more moths fluttered around their heads. One settled on Marinette’s collarbone and flapped its wings. _And hurry. Tempus fugit_.

Marinette brushed the moth off and looked across the street. Stuck like a cork in a bottle, the enormous akuma gave a plaintive, wordless whine. “You’re right,” she said.

“So we’re taking orders from a mysterious voice in our heads now?” Chat asked her incredulously.

"We’re not taking orders,” Marinette said coolly. “We’re acting on information presented to us. Look, the akuma’s not even struggling to get free. The voice is right, she’s trying not to knock those buildings over.”

Chat looked, and saw that she was right. The big purple monster was rigidly still, not even kicking its legs. He grimaced. “Alright. How do we do this?”

“You go right, I go left. We split them up, distract them so they’re not focused on her anymore. Once she shrinks, she can make a getaway, and if they’re chasing all three of us they won’t be able to catch any of us. We shake them off and then regroup.” She scanned the street. “I can probably drop that lamp-post on them, which’ll make some noise. Then you…I dunno, pants one of them or something.”

Chat snorted with laughter. “Wow, very heroic. I dig it.” A thought occurred to him, visibly. “Oh, I didn’t tell you about my thing that I can do, did I?” He held up his right hand. “My right hand can, like, destroy things by touching them. This black lightning comes out of it, it’s pretty badass actually.”

Marinette blinked, processing this new information. “How does that tie in with the whole were-cat gimmick?”

Chat grinned. “It’s bad luck to cross my path.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, clearly pleased with himself. Marinette snorted.

“Alright, then _you_ drop a lamp-post on them and I’ll just try not to hurt any of them too badly this time,” she said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Marinette dropped to street level around the corner from the police line. She stuck her head out for a peek, a plan forming. _That should get their attention in a non-lethal fashion_. She stepped around the corner and began walking briskly towards them.

One of the cops at the roadblock must have not liked the look of her stride, because his hand went to the gun at his hip. “Stay back, this is an-” he began. Whatever it was would remain a mystery, however, as Marinette’s hand shot out and grabbed his ankle, yanking him off his feet. The other officer was slow to react, his eyes whipping between his partner and Marinette. Marinette wrapped her arm, still extended, around his torso like a lasso. Then she took a flying leap towards him, and slammed her knee into his gut. He went down with a whoof. Moving quickly, she plucked his taser from its holster. The other cop was struggling to his feet. Marinette tazed him, wincing at his strangled grunt of agony. She grabbed the pistol from the cop still pinned beneath her and stood. Everything had gone so quickly that the other police hadn’t noticed her yet.

Marinette cupped a hand around her mouth. “ _Hey, pigs!_ ” she yelled, and immediately felt like an idiot due to how much cooler and more rebellious it had sounded in her head. Oh well. No going back now. For emphasis, she raised the pistol over her head and squeezed off a shot into the air.

 _That_ got their attention. Heads snapped in her direction. Marinette turned and ran.

* * *

Adrien froze at the sound of the gunshot, ears flattening against his head and tail bristling. _Jeez, LB, warn a guy next time_ , he thought, and mentally reassured himself that he hadn’t been scared, just startled. Fragile masculinity: intact. He resumed his descent down the side of the building, dropping the last few meters to land silently on padded paws. He turned to survey the street; Ladybug had poked the anthill, but most of the cops were still clustered around the mouth of the alley, although now facing outwards in defensive postures.

“Alright, how to get them to move _outwards_ rather than huddle up even tighter,” Adrien muttered to himself, stroking his chin. His gaze twitched back and forth, surveying the scene. _Need something that’ll scatter them without hurting anyone, and that won’t get me shot._ A mischievous grin spread across his face. _Ah. That might do it._

* * *

The second sign – after the other akuma showing up – that something was going wrong tonight was when the streetlights started going out. First was the one at the end of the avenue, which flickered, and then toppled into the street with a crash. Then the next-closest, and the next, the darkness creeping up the street towards the circle of cars.

“I see something!” someone yelled. “Someone’s out there!”

Whatever that officer was about to say next was cut off by a blast of water that sprayed into the cluster of police, the spray blinding them and making the ground slick. Then, with a groan, a light post directly overhead collapsed, landing on one of the police cars with a deafening boom of crumpling metal.

That was enough to make their resolve falter. The police began to scramble backwards, making a hasty but – to their credit – organized retreat down the street, keeping their guns trained in the direction from which they’d come.

Crouched behind a police car, fur slick with the spray from the ruptured fire hydrant, Adrien resisted the urge to cackle.

* * *

Mylène couldn’t see what was going on behind her. Shouting, gunshots, more shouting. Several loud crashes. Whatever was happening, the balance between her fear and the fear flowing into her from those nearby tipped in her fear’s favor. She lost three meters of height in one burst, and nearly groaned in relief. Moving as quickly as she dared, she resumed her flight up the long, twisting alley leading uphill away from the Seine, towards the Butte-aux-Cailles. With every step away, she shed mass, smaller and more agile.

 _Turn left at the next cross-street_ , rang a voice in her head that was not her own. Mylène nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise.

“Who said that?” she asked – _I can talk again_ , she realized with relief – skidding to a halt and spinning in a circle. There was no one else in the alley.

 _Questions waste both of our time_ , came the voice again. _I know a place you can hide, if you hurry_.

Mylène considered it for a moment, claws scratching at the pavement as she looked over her shoulder. “Alright,” she said at last. “Lead the way.”

 _That’s the idea_ , said the voice.

* * *

Mylène had followed the voice’s directions down a maze of side streets and into an unlocked rear door of what looked like an office building. At the bottom of a steep concrete staircase was a dimly-lit hallway lined with pipes. Moths fluttered around the orange utility bulbs set into the ceiling.

_Go to the right. The third door on the right side of the hallway leads to a supply closet. There’s a trapdoor inside. It’s locked, but I assume you can break it open._

Mylène said nothing, but went where the voice indicated. She opened the unmarked, rusted door, and there was indeed a supply closet. At first she didn’t see the trapdoor, hidden underneath a mop-and-bucket and several old paint cans. She shifted them to the side, and tore the padlock off the trapdoor as easily as the voice had assumed she would. She opened the trap door. A pitch-dark shaft led straight down, rusty ladder rungs along one side.

“Where does this lead to?” she asked, a quaver of fear in her voice. This had all gotten very horror-movie, very quickly.

 _It was going to be a subway station. The development plans fell through several years ago. Now it’s owned by the corporation that owns this building. Which, in turn, is owned by me._ The voice sounded a little smug about it. _Think of it as a safe house. There is food and water, enough for a few days. No one will find you._

“A few days?!” Mylène exclaimed. “No, I have to get home, my dad might be home from rehearsal already, he doesn’t know I’m out!”

 _Are you sure the police haven’t already found out your human identity?_ the voice said challengingly. _You could walk into another trap_.

The Bruels knew who she was, Mylène realized. They’d seen her before she transformed – they could tell the police who she was, where to find her. She felt like the bottom of her stomach had dropped out. “Oh, no…” she said, putting her face in her paws. “This is such a disaster…”

 _Do your parents know about your abilities?_ the voice asked.

“It’s just me and my dad,” Mylène said. “And no, he doesn’t know. No one does, except for the Bruels because I _transformed in front of them like a moron_.” She groaned, slumping against the wall.

 _Yes, that wasn’t particularly wise_ , the voice said. _But allowing yourself to be captured would have been **monumentally** foolish_. _If the police know who they are looking for, they’ll probably announce it. Remain here until I can determine whether it’s safe or not for you to return home._

Mylène was quiet for a moment. This was putting a lot of trust in a stranger, who’d given no hard evidence of having her best interests at heart. Plus, he was bossy. Still, she didn’t have many options. “I guess you’re right,” she said at last.

The shaft was too narrow for her, even at minimum monstrous size; she reverted, finally, to her human form, with a host of soreness and pains that adrenaline and her transformation had shielded her from. Sucking in a nervous, unsteady breath, she began her descent. The ladder was rough with rust; Mylène hated the way it felt on her skin, scraping off onto her as she went. It was not a short climb, and her arms were burning by the end of it. At last, she reached the bottom, sneakered foot finding a bare concrete floor. She couldn’t see anything, but the space felt close around her. Turning and feeling her way along the walls, she found a metal door immediately behind her. It opened at her touch, with a creak of disused hinges. Beyond, there was total darkness. She could feel a faint movement of air.

 _Immediately to the right of the door, there is a flashlight,_ the voice said. _Its batteries should still be charged._

Mylène reached out, and found it sitting on a low table – a heavy, industrial flashlight, for spelunkers or building inspectors. Its weight in her hand was comforting. Even untransformed, she could probably brain someone pretty good with this. She flicked it on, the blue-white light flooding the space.

It was as the voice had said. A bare concrete half-tube, stretching away a few dozen meters in either direction. She could see a deep trench across the middle of the space, where the tracks would have gone. A sweep of the light revealed nothing down there but puddles of water and a few rats. Mylène gave an _eep!_ of surprise, shying away from the edge, at that. Looking around, she saw a simple cot set against one of the curving walls, a crate beside it with a camping lamp serving as a nightstand. She walked over to it. The bed was neatly made, and clearly hadn’t been touched in a while. She blew a puff of dust off the pillow. Those sheets looked expensive. She stroked them experimentally. Yup. Felt expensive too.

There was a noise from overhead. Heart pounding, Mylène whipped around, shining the flashlight at the ceiling, having visions of whatever monster had lured her to its underground lair sneaking up above her to eat her brains and suck her bone marrow out or whatever it was after. That was, of course, not what she saw. There didn’t seem to be anything there. She wasn’t sure what had made the noise. The beam of the flashlight twitched back and forth in her trembling hands as she looked. It shone on something dark on the ceiling – something that exploded into motion as the light touched it. Mylène screamed in fright, dropping the flashlight.

 _Don’t be afraid of the moths_ , came the voice in her head. It was louder now, almost like it was echoing in the cavernous space. _They won’t hurt you._

“The…the moths?” Mylène said, heart still pounding in her chest as she bent down to retrieve the flashlight. Her knees feeling suddenly weak, she sat back on the bed, leaning uncomfortably against the inward curve of the wall.

 _Yes, the moths_. One moth flittered down in the light of the torch, seating itself on its rim. It was large, at least as wide as her hand. It spread its wings, relaxing. _What’s your name, girl?_

“Mylène,” Mylène answered. “Mylène Haprèle. What’s yours?”

 _It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mylène. You can call me…hm._ The voice was quiet for a moment. _Call me…Hawk Moth._

“Hawk M- oh. _Oh,_ ” Mylène said. She looked at the moth perched on the end of her flashlight, and then up into the darkness overhead where paper-thin wings rustled. “You’re…”

 _Yes,_ the voice confirmed, dryly amused. _Quite so._

“How long have you been…like this?”

 _Quite some time_ , Hawk Moth said.

Mylène waited for him to continue, but one cryptic half-sentence was apparently all she was getting. She sighed, falling back against the pillow and kicking her sneakers off, and stared up at the overhang of the wall.

 _Mylène_ , said Hawk Moth after a moment of silence. Mylène turned to look at the moth still perched on the flashlight. _Why were you at those people’s home tonight?_

Mylène sat up, a little surprised at the question. “Their son, Ivan,” she said. “He’s a…” Her cheeks colored slightly. “A classmate of mine. He went missing recently. The police couldn’t find him, so I started looking. And I found out…” She took a shaky breath. “I think he’s an akuma. I don’t think his parents realized, before he disappeared…but he was. Is.” Mylène looked down at her hands, fingers knotted together by nerves. “I have to believe he’s an is, not a was.”

It was a long moment before Hawk Moth spoke again. _We have more in common than I thought, then,_ he said. _I also lost someone I cared about, recently_. _Like your…classmate, she disappeared, without a trace. And, like your classmate, she was like us._ Mylène’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by Hawk Moth’s mental voice. _Get some rest. You’ll need it, one way or another._ The moth perched on her flashlight fluttered up and away, out of her sight.

“…Good night, Hawk Moth,” Mylène said softly.

_Good night, Mylène Haprèle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fond of Mylène, or at least the version of her I've been forced to construct in my head due to the relatively scant characterization she's received. Hopefully you all will also find her compelling. :P
> 
> She hasn't seen the last of Inspector Durand, of course.
> 
> Thanks for reading! ^___^
> 
> BTW, do y'all think this warrants a Mature rating? I wanted to err on the side of caution, but for the foreseeable future it won't get much more violent or horrific than this and I have no plans for anything that warrants more than a PG-13 in the smoochin' department.


	4. When and Where?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mylène wakes up in a strange place. Marinette's got it bad. Hawk Moth is up to something.

_“People crushed by law have no hopes but from power. If laws are their enemies, they will be enemies to laws; and those who have much to hope and nothing to lose will always be dangerous.”_

_\- Edmund Burke, private correspondence, 8 October 1777_

* * *

It was the buzzing of Mylène’s phone in her pocket that woke her. With a sleepy grumble, she tugged it out from under her. Cheerful, bouncing letters on its screen informed her that it was time to get up for school.

_School? It’s still pitch-dark, it’s the middle of the night…_ , she thought, confused.

She snapped upright as her brain caught up with her. It was pitch-dark because she was dozens of meters underground, sleeping on a dusty cot in an abandoned subway station, hiding from a city-wide police manhunt.

“Hawk Moth?” she rasped, throat dry. She fumbled for the flashlight on the crate next to the bed, switching it on. The other akuma had said there was food and water, hadn’t he? She spotted a few large plastic jugs of water, tucked against the wall.

_Ah, you’re up,_ came the voice of the other akuma in her head. _The police have already released a statement about the events of last night. If your hosts from last night – the Bruels, you said their name was? – exposed your identity to the police, then the police are playing it close to the vest; they describe you as ‘an unidentified akuma’ and have asked anyone with any information to step forwards._

Mylène lowered the plastic jug, hastily swallowing her mouthful of water and wiping her face. “So…it’s safe for me to go home?” she asked eagerly. “I’ve got to call my dad, he’ll be worried sick.”

_I’d advise against it_ , Hawk Moth said curtly. _This could still be a trap. They could have withheld your name as a gambit to induce you to show yourself. The minute you go home, or tell your father where to find you, they will have you_. _Stay here; you will be safe._

“For how long?” Mylène asked

_Until my sources can determine whether or not they suspect you_ , came Hawk Moth’s non-answer.

“So what? Days? Weeks?”

_Very possibly_.

Mylène thought of her father. What would he have thought, when he came home from his second job to an empty apartment and no sign of his daughter? What would he think, as a night became a night and a day, and stretched from there into a week?

What would that _do_ to him?

Mylène reached down to find her shoes, and tugged them on. “No,” she said, with a fierceness that surprised her. “I have to go home.” She stood, and began walking quickly towards the ladder to the surface.

_Don’t be a fool!_ Hawk Moth snapped, anger coloring his words. _What will you do if they come for you again? I may not be able to arrange an escape for you next time. We are too few, Mylène; the risk is too great._

He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t the one with a family worried sick about him. She pulled the metal door open, and paused for a moment before switching the flashlight off, setting it where she’d first found it. Around her, the darkness was total.

_Mylène!!_ the other akuma snarled.

“Buzz off, Hawk Moth,” she said, and shut the door behind her.

* * *

As soon as she had left the building over the ghost station, Mylène’s phone almost leapt out of her pocket, buzzing with alert after alert. Wincing, she looked at it. Sixteen missed calls – mostly from her father, but there were two from Rose, one from Alix, and one from Juleka. A storm of text messages. She didn’t bother reading them all, instead dialing her father’s cell.

“Dad?” she said, as soon as the call went through.

_"Mylène? Oh, thank God. Sweetie, are you all right? Where are you? I got home last night and you were gone, you weren’t answering your phone. I called everyone, you weren’t at any of your friends’ houses. I’ve been worried sick, I thought…”_

Her father’s words trailed off. Mylène knew full well what he must have thought. “I’m okay, Dad, don’t worry,” she said, voice trembling. It was such a relief to hear his voice, she wanted to cry. “I’m headed home right now.” Looking around in the daylight, she didn’t recognize the neighbourhood or see any familiar landmarks, but now that there wasn’t fifteen meters of concrete in the way, Google Maps could handle the rest. She started walking decisively towards the main road.

" _You’re okay? You’re not hurt?”_ Fred Haprèle asked, still sounding frantic. _“I’ll come get you, stay where you are. What happened, where have you been?”_

“I just went out to the corner store to get a snack,” Mylène said, repurposing the excuse she’d had ready in case she hadn’t finished with Durand in time. “And then there was an akuma attack, the one that was on the news this morning. It passed right by me and I got scared, so I just ran, and kept running, and, and-” _Slow down, Mylène, you’re talking too fast, he’s going to know you’re lying_ , she chastised herself. “-And I got lost, and then my phone died, so I was wandering around all night but I got all turned around and I couldn’t find my way home, but I found somewhere to charge my phone so I could call you.” She took a breath to steady herself. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Dad. Everything’s okay, promise. Are you at home?”

Her father let out a deep sigh of relief, static blasting through the phone’s speaker. _“Yeah, sweetie, I’m at home. I’m so glad you’re alright. I’ll be here, let me know when you’re close.”_

“I will, promise.” Mylène was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay, Dad? Is everything okay there?” _Please tell me if there’s a squad of armed police looming over your shoulders while you’re making this call_.

" _Yeah. Everything’s fine here,”_ Fred Haprèle said. Mylène heard nothing in his voice but love and relief. _“If you’re okay, then I’m okay_. _”_

“I love you, Dad.”

_"I love you too, baby girl.”_

* * *

Alix stuffed another croissant into her mouth as she headed for the door. “Laer, guyf!” she called around the mouthful of pastry, bending to snatch her rollerblades by the laces and sling them over her shoulder.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Alix,” Jalil said without looking up from the blizzard of papers spread across his half of the kitchen table.

“Have a good day at school, dear!” her father called from behind the wall of books that occupied the other half of the table.

Another ordinary day in the Kubdel household. Alix tugged the door shut behind her, clattering down the steep stairs of their cramped, ancient apartment building.

When she slouched through the door of Mme. Bustier’s classroom at College Francois Dupont, fifteen minutes later and only five minutes late, the first thing she noticed was that Mylène wasn’t there.

_On the one hand, cool, don’t have to go the long way around to get to my seat_ , Alix thought as she trudged up the center aisle. _On the other hand, guess she never showed up at home after M. Haprèle called last night._ _Great_.

Alix settled into her seat, and a dull sense of worry settled into her gut.

* * *

Alix checked her phone again as the student body filtered out of the school for lunch. Still nothing from Mylène. She sighed, dropping it back into her bag.

“Hey,” Kim grunted as Alix plopped herself down next to him and Max on the front steps of the school. “You see the fight last night?”

“The Massey-Jiang rematch on Channel 32, or the akuma attack?” Alix asked, fishing out her lunch. She began shoveling couscous into her mouth without waiting for Kim’s answer.

“There was an akuma attack?” Kim asked, blinking in surprise.

Max snorted with laughter from the tall boy’s other side, and Alix almost choked on her couscous. “Fucking Christ, Kim,” she said. “Do you turn on your TV like, ever? There was a giant purple monster rampaging across Paris! And no, I didn’t see the fight, I already spent all my allowance for the month and my dad wouldn’t shell out for the pay-per-view.”

“He actually doesn’t watch TV,” Max chimed in. “He gets the fights streamed directly to his laptop. I, of course, illegally recorded the stream and can make the recording available to you if you wish.” He took another sip of his drink.

“Thanks, Max,” Alix said, smirking at the fact that the gawky boy had felt the need to specify that he’d _illegally_ recorded the MMA bout. She watched Kim take another sip of whatever disgusting monochromatic sludge was in his water bottle. “Hey, man, you know that protein shakes are not a substitute for actual food, right?”

“It’s not a protein shake!” Kim protested, a protein-shake mustache on his upper lip. “It’s _soylent_. It’s nutritionally complete!”

“It’s what now?”

“Soylent. It’s a meal replacement drink,” Max said, beaming with nerd energy. “I heard about it on the internet.”

“Looks gross,” Alix said bluntly. She grabbed for Kim’s water bottle. “Lemme try some.”

“Hey, no, this stuff’s expensive!” Kim protested, easily holding it out of his diminutive friend’s reach.

“So cry about it,” Alix said, trying to clamber up his arm.

“Here, you can have some of mine,” Max said. He held out a white plastic bottle with a pink cap. “This one’s strawberry-flavored.”

“Oh, cool,” Alix said, abandoning her attempts to use Kim as a jungle gym and accepting Max’s gift. “Matches my hair.”

“Yes, that did inform my flavor selection process,” Max said smugly, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“So, wait, what happened with the akuma?” Kim asked. As Max launched into a recap of what was publicly known about last night’s events, Alix sipped the drink. _Huh. It’s like vaguely fruit-flavored pancake batter._ She smacked her lips thoughtfully. _Yup, this is gross_.

Her phone rattled against the concrete through the thin fabric of her backpack. She pulled it out, swiping her thumb across the print reader. It was a text from Mylène. _Back home safe_ , it read. _Sorry to worry you. See you in class tomorrow_. Alix let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Oh, man,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “ _That’s_ a relief.”

When she looked up, Max and Kim were both looking at her inquisitively. “What’s up?” Kim asked.

“Oh, Mylène. She wasn’t at home last night and her dad was freaking out. She just texted me saying she’s okay.”

Kim grunted, losing interest, and resumed staring at traffic.

“That’s good,” Max said. “Statistically speaking, most missing-persons incidents are innocuous and quickly resolved, but despite the National Police’s claims to the contrary there has been an aggregate increase in unresolved missing-persons cases of more than 7% across France over the course of the last calendar year, and a 15% increase in Paris over the course of the last six months. If memory serves, at least.” He began tapping away at his phone. “I’m sure I have a link to the documentation here somewhere.”

Alix blinked. “Wait, _fifteen percent?_ How many more people is that?”

“Ah, found it!” Max said. “One moment.” He scrolled quickly through the web page on his phone. “Hm. I wouldn’t call these figures reliable by any stretch of the imagination, you understand, they rely on several mathematic leaps and statistical extrapolations that are quite tenuous. With that proviso, one might estimate as many as one hundred additional people above the expected total have gone missing from the greater Paris area this year.” At Alix’s wide-eyed expression, he raised his hands, palms towards her, as if to shield himself. “The figure sounds much worse than it is! Really, I shouldn’t have said anything; the leaps of logic necessary to arrive at that number  make it worse than useless – actively misleading, even.”

Alix squinted at him. “A hundred people is a lot, Max.”

“We are a city of over two million,” Max protested weakly.

“It’s still a lot.” Alix took another sip of her soylent. “This stuff is gross, you know,” she said conversationally.

Max heaved a heavy sigh, and took a sip of his own. “Yes, I know.”

* * *

“Juleka?” Marinette asked cautiously, maintaining a distance of a few feet from her darkling classmate so as not to startle her. “Are you alright?”

Juleka’s arms were wrapped around her knees, her head tucked into her arms in turn. She radiated misery, even more so than usual. She lifted her head to look up at Marinette. “…No,” she said after a moment.

Marinette sat down next to Juleka, leaning back against the bricks. “Do you want to talk about it?” she said softly.

Juleka gave a rattling sigh. “You noticed how Rose wasn’t in class today?” she said. Marinette nodded; she had noticed. “The akuma last night went right by Rose’s house. She got pretty freaked out and called me. I spent like half the night trying to calm her down. I don’t think I did a very good job.”

“What makes you say so?” Marinette asked.

Juleka shrugged. “I saw it too. I thought it was cool; just like in the movies. I wasn’t scared at all, and I didn’t get why Rose was so upset. I think she could tell. She got kind of mad at me towards the end.” The tall girl picked at her cuticles, not looking at Marinette. “She probably hates me now.”

“Juleka, don’t you think you’re catastrophizing just a _little_ bit?” Marinette said encouragingly. “You and Rose have been friends for years. She knows you have trouble with stuff like this. Has it ever caused problems before?”

“Yes,” Juleka said, morose.

“ _But_ ,” Marinette said with a smile, having anticipated this response. “She is still your friend! You’ll work it out this time, just like you have every time before. I can’t remember _ever_ having seen the two of you stay mad at each other for long.” She reached out to lightly pat Juleka’s hand, in reassurance. “Have you talked to her since last night?”

“No,” came the glum response.

“Then I would text her and say that you’re sorry if you weren’t very helpful last night and that you hope she’s doing okay.” Marinette gently bumped Juleka’s shoulder with her own. “Don’t worry, Jules. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Juleka cast a glance at the other girl from under her purple bangs. “…Thanks, Marinette.” She bumped Marinette back, managing a small smile.

Marinette’s phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket and looked at it.

_CN: Wanna meet up again tonight?_

Chat Noir had followed the message with two moon emojis bracketing a cat emoji, an Eiffel Tower emoji, and a ladybug emoji. Marinette rolled her eyes. This boy was something else. _Probably a bad idea_ , she texted back. _Did you see how many police were out today? We should lay low for a few days._

“Who’re you texting?” Juleka asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Oh, no one!” Marinette said, voice cracking. She hastily stuffed her phone back in her pocket. “Just…feeding my virtual cats! Mm-hm!” Juleka raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing. Over her shoulder, Marinette caught sight of a familiar figure walking through the front doors of College Francois Dupont. “Oh, look who just got here!” she said. “I’ll let you two talk. See ya later!” With a panic-wide grin, she did her best not to bolt from the scene.

* * *

Rose couldn’t have put a name to what she was feeling as Juleka approached her. The tall girl gripped her elbows with lace-gloved hands, staring fixedly at the ground. She drew up to Rose and stopped. “Hey.”

Rose didn’t say anything, just looking up at Juleka, eyes still a little red and face still a little puffy.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Juleka blurted. “I was an asshole.”

“Hey! Swear jar,” Rose said, pointing at the taller girl accusingly. Juleka sighed and pulled a crumpled euro note from her pocket. Rose pulled said swear jar from her bag and tucked the note into it. She added one of her own pre-emptively, and then tucked the jar away again. “You’re not an asshole.”

“I _feel_ like an asshole,” Juleka muttered.

“I kind of feel like you’re an asshole too, but that doesn’t mean you are one.” Rose walked over to one of the benches at the edges of the gym and sat, hands folded primly in her lap. Juleka sat next to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do _you_ want to talk about it?” Juleka countered.

“I want to not _have_ to talk about it, Juleka,” Rose said, a little angrily.

Juleka was quiet for a moment. “I was tired. It was two in the morning, on a school night. I’m sorry I wasn’t very patient with you.”

“You thought I was being silly and hysterical,” Rose said bitterly, wrapping her arms around herself. “Not all of us _like_ the idea of giant monsters destroying our homes.”

Juleka tugged at her gloves, unable to refute Rose’s statement. “I _said_ I felt like an asshole.”

Rose sighed, and scooted a little closer to Juleka, their shoulders and hips touching. “It wasn’t fair of me to put all the responsibility for me being okay on you. I was being a little selfish.” She chewed her lip, wondering how much she should tell Juleka about…things. “The akuma scared me, but it was other stuff that I didn’t talk about that was bothering me too. That’s why I got as snappy with you as I did. And that wasn’t fair of me either; if I won’t talk to you about what’s wrong, I can’t expect you to fix it.”

Juleka cautiously reached a hand out. Rose took it, their fingers intertwining. “Tell me about it?” Juleka asked.

Rose shook her head. “Later, maybe. Don’t worry about it yet.”

“I always worry about you,” Juleka said softly.

Rose looked around. It was the middle of the lunch break – the gym was deserted. She turned back to Juleka. “Hey,” she said firmly. Juleka turned to look at her, copper eyes attentive. Said eyes widened in surprise when Rose pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

“You’re sweet,” Rose informed her girlfriend, squeezing her hand.

Juleka blushed and mumbled something incoherent, tucking her hair behind a reddening ear.

* * *

The clock on Mylène’s nightstand read an insulting 14:30. She scrubbed her eyes and stuffed her face against her pillow with a huff of frustration. Her cheek throbbed dully; she hadn’t realized it until she’d gotten home, but the police sniper’s bullet she’d taken to the face while transformed had left a livid, mottled bruise spread across her cheek. Her dad had nearly combusted with alarm when he’d seen her. He’d already called out from work, and wouldn’t hear the thought of her going in to finish the school day, for which she was desperately, exhaustedly grateful. More emotionally drained than physically tired, she’d fumbled through the nightly hair-care routine she hadn’t had a chance to complete the night before, swapped her day hairscarf out for a satin sleep wrap, and collapsed onto her bed.

Sleep, however, was not in the hand that the day had dealt her.

In the quiet dimness of her room, sun glowing through the gaps in her closed blinds, the blankness of the long, slow walk home had given way to the crushing weight of her situation. Every minute that passed was another minute that the Bruels could give the police the name of the girl who’d questioned their love for their missing son and then destroyed their apartment – another minute that men with guns might break the door down and storm into the tiny three-room apartment that she shared with her father.

_What if he tried to stop them?_ The thought rattled around her head, refusing to be still. Fred Haprèle, who loved his daughter unconditionally; Fred Haprèle, standing in the way of the faceless, visored figures that her mind conjured for the police.

Fred Haprèle, dead on the floor with a bullet in him.

She was a monster. She was, probably, the worst daughter ever.

Mylène pulled her phone from under her pillow, its bright blue light like a kick in the face. She curled around it, ignoring the discomfort, and opened her web browser. With jerky motions, she typed _akuma attack Paris_ into the search bar. Sure enough, the twenty-four-hour news cycle was already rolling. She made sure to sign onto the wi-fi of the café across the street before she clicked on TVi News’ video; data was expensive. With the volume all the way down so as to not disturb her dad in the other room, she read the subtitles as Nadja Chamack’s tiny image talked on her screen. In the daylight, everything looked much worse; crumpled police cars, cracked pavement, chunks of masonry knocked off the corners of buildings. She read the estimate of the total monetary cost of the property damage she’d inflicted and felt, all of a sudden, like she might throw up.

_Oh, it’s fine, Mylène, you were upset, it would only take **ten times as much money as your dad’s earned over his entire adult life added together** to pay for this!!!_ she shrieked, internally.

There was article after article, comment section after comment section, and they were all saying the same thing. People were scared. People were angry. People wanted the police to do something, to catch the monster that had rampaged through their city. Everyone who’d voiced concerns, a week ago, about the vast expansions to police powers in the absence of an apparent crisis and the government’s infuriating vagueness about the nature of the threat, was now silent. Well, except for the ones who were still insisting that the akuma weren’t real and this was all a government psy-op, hashtag Illuminati, hashtag 666. Mylène, obviously, did not find this a terribly compelling theory.

She pulled her blanket over her head and desperately hoped that she hadn’t justified everything the government was doing to hunt her down.

* * *

Marinette’s eyes widened when she got a good look at Mylène’s face for the first time that day. She’d come in late, as usual, and had crept straight for her seat, as usual, and Mylène sat several rows behind her anyway; therefore, it wasn’t until a few classes later that she’d caught sight of the large, ugly bruise on the shorter girl’s face. Marinette’s heartbeat immediately kicked into a higher gear. Was Mylène okay? Was that why she’d had to miss school yesterday? Almost before she’d realized what she was doing, she was out of her seat and headed towards Mylène. Alix, who sat next to Mylène, saw her coming and must have read the worry on her face. The pink-haired girl caught Marinette’s eye and shook her head slightly, a small frown of concern on her face.

Marinette stopped short. She managed a weak grin and an answering nod, and returned to her seat. Everyone had a right to not talk about things; it made sense that skittish, shy Mylène would be mortified enough without her classmates’ concern, however well-intentioned. Especially these days, Marinette was learning to appreciate people minding their own business.

She realized someone was trying to get her attention when they cleared their throat loudly. Snapping out of her daze, Marinette turned to see Juleka standing beside her. “Oh! Sorry, Juleka, I was totally spacing out,” Marinette said, flustered. She always felt bad when she had to make her soft-spoken classmate fight for her attention.

Juleka mumbled something quietly in response, but Marinette couldn’t pick out more than a few words. “Sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked sheepishly. Juleka leaned in closer, cupping a hand around Marinette’s ear.

“Mylène’s fine,” she said, not any louder than the first time. “Alix and I asked her about the bruise already. She was out during the akuma attack day before yesterday and fell and hurt herself. She’s embarrassed about it, so don’t stare.”

“Oh, good, I was worried!” Adrien said cheerfully from the row in front of them, settling into his seat. Both of the girls’ eyes snapped towards him in surprise. _How is his hearing that good?_ , Marinette wondered. Juleka had been speaking in a low whisper. The golden-haired boy continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’d startled them, a well-intentioned smile on his face. “I know a pretty good brand of heavy-duty concealer, if she needs it.”

Juleka was still rattled, Marinette could tell. She wasn’t particularly close with Adrien, and didn’t like to be startled on top of that. Still, she managed a wordless thumbs-up at the boy before retreating to the back of the classroom with Rose.

With Juleka gone, Adrien turned to Marinette. “It sucks that people got hurt in the incident,” he said, an astonishingly earnest and serious look of concern darkening his features.

“Y-yeah,” Marinette said, feeling her heart rise into her throat. Adrien was _speaking to her!!_ “You’re pretty- I mean, _it’s_ pretty good and I worry that you’re scary- I mean, um…” She took a deep breath and marshalled her words into order. “It’s-pretty-scary-and-it’s-good-of-you-to-worry,” she recited, eyes squeezed shut. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. Why did this always happen around him?

“I bet this sort of stuff wouldn’t happen if the akumas could come forward without worrying about being disappeared,” he said, his tablet stylus tapping against the desk as he twiddled it between his fingers. “You know? Even if the police are right, and they _are_ bad guys, of course it’s always going to escalate like that if they don’t have any reason to surrender. Like, a normal thief can just give up when they corner him because he knows he’ll have a trial, and go to jail, and that obviously sucks but it’s better than _dying_. We don’t know _what_ ’s going to happen to an akuma if they’re ever caught; it’s only logical for them to assume that it’s life-or-death.” His expression grew distant for a moment, gaze turning inwards towards some mental scene Marinette couldn’t see. He managed a faint smile as he looked back at her, and the expression on his face was so heartbreakingly _vulnerable_ that Marinette almost died on the spot. “Is it weird that I feel guilty about the whole thing? There was an awful lot of damage.”

“N-no!” Marinette managed reflexively. “I don’t think that’s weird at all!” She remembered the buck of a pistol in her hand and the sound of shattering windows and creaking masonry. A heavy feeling settled back into her stomach. “I don’t think that’s weird at all,” she repeated, more softly.

She was almost afraid to meet Adrien’s – _beautiful, kind, glowing_ – eyes. Her gaze made it as far as his sculpted jawline before Ms. Mendeleiev stormed in and loudly announced that class was in session. Marinette’s eyes flicked up to Adrien’s for half a second. There was something in them that she couldn’t describe, some thoughtful quirk of his brows as he looked at her. She quickly snatched her eyes away with a sharp intake of breath, looking back down at her tablet but not seeing it.

As class progressed, she didn’t hear a word of the lecture. Her head was swirling with thoughts, rising to the surface and sinking again before she could put words to them. She’d said two whole sentences to Adrien. He’d _started a conversation with her_. And, if she was being totally honest, she had 100% _not_ expected him to have put that much thought into the akuma question – let alone come to such a pragmatic, humane conclusion. She kept forgetting that he was more than just a pretty face – partly because he was still so closely associated with Chloe in her mind, but mostly because his face was just _so pretty_.

The things going on in her life now were the definition of ‘bigger problems.’ The thought that the boy she liked didn’t think she was a monster - that her silly, juvenile middle-school crush wasn’t doomed by her midnight roamings as a mutant vigilante – probably shouldn’t have filled her chest with the sort of soaring, sky-blue lightness that threatened to put a dopey grin on her face.

Nevertheless, it did.

* * *

A week passed. December arrived unheralded, like a death in the family.

Mylène went straight home after school and stayed there, every night, until school the next day. She passed the nights stewing in fear, and a healthy helping of guilt, not only at the mess she’d caused but at her failure to follow through on her promise to Ivan’s parents. The least she could have done after destroying their home was actually _do something_ to bring their son back to them. Still, fear pinned her, like a butterfly to a card.

Adrien prowled his palatial cage at night, and went through an entire bottle of mouthwash trying to cover up the smell of Camembert, and dreamed of a girl in red.

Marinette realized that she was already behind schedule on everyone’s Christmas gifts, and thoughts of mutants and manhunts were shoved aside to make room for knitting, and fabric swatches, and lists of measurements. Which, in turn, gave way to scandalous daydreams about mistletoe and a certain blond-haired model. She tried not to think about the police officer's pistol, hidden at the back of one of her desk drawers.

And, in the background, the clockwork of the world ground onward.

* * *

Bruno Bruel rolled his neck with a series of loud cracks as the door of the hotel room he and Sophie had been sharing for the past week swung closed behind him. “Hey, _mon chou_ ,” he called, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it in the closet.

There was no immediate response. With a frown, Bruno moved from the short entry hallway into the main body of the room. The first thing he noticed was _moths_. Wings swirled in the room, a blizzard in shades of brown and grey.

Before Bruno could say anything, he felt a terrible weight of attention settle onto him. A wordless croak escaped his parted lips. He was paralyzed. It felt like his brain was being squeezed by an immense hand. All he could see was wings, wings, wings…

When he came back to himself, he was on his knees, facing the radiator along the wall of the room. His arms were zip-tied behind him. A quick glance to his side showed Sophie beside him, bound also and with tape over her mouth. Before he could look any further, cold metal pressed against his cheek.

_M. Bruel_ , came a voice that was not a voice. _That’s far enough, if you please._ Bruno’s skin pricked in goosebumps, fear coiling cold in his chest. _I will now ask you the same question I asked your lovely wife. I will know if you are lying to me_ , the voice continued. _Nod if you understand._

Bruno nodded, the motion jerky.

_What did you tell the police about what happened when the akuma came to your home last week?_

“Nothing,” Bruno said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

_I’ll require somewhat more detail than that, M. Bruel_ , the voice said, with a gentle nudge of the metal object against the back of his head.

“My mother didn’t raise a damn snitch,” Bruno said. “Sophie and I worked our story out on the way over to the station. We said that we didn’t know how the akuma got into the apartment, and it didn’t tell us what it wanted, and we’d never seen it before and had no idea who it was. That’s _it_.”

There was a moment of silence. _Your discretion is appreciated,_ the voice said at last. _In recognition of the loyalty you have shown to our…mutual friend, you’ll find a piece of paper on the table. It has the information for a numbered account with Credit Suisse. I hope you will find the funds therein sufficient to cover whatever damages your landlord’s insurance did not, and to secure yourselves new permanent lodgings. Plus some extra, of course, for your trouble. There are also wire cutters for the zip ties._ Bruno heard the sound of soft footsteps on the carpeted floor, moving away from him. _Please do not hold this visit against our young friend, by the way. Had she known of it, I am sure she would have objected. She seems a compassionate young woman._ _And, needless to say, do not follow me_.

The door to the room briefly swung open, and then shut.

* * *

Detective Durand tapped a knuckle against the door. “Captain? You got a moment?” Captain Mosse looked up from his paperwork and motioned the detective to have a seat. Durand did so. “I noticed you ordered the Bruel case re-opened,” he said, in a carefully neutral tone that only a fool would have mistaken for an actual lack of emotion. “And that it’s been reassigned to someone I’ve never even heard of.”

Mosse took off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Martin, you know damn well that it’s against procedure for the investigating officer to be personally involved in a case.”

"How am I personally involved? So a monster showed up at my flat and threatened me; so what! I don’t know the kid, and I don’t know the monster,” Durand said, spreading his arms.

“You were the victim of the B&E and the aggravated assault,” Mosse countered. “The Bruel investigation’s been folded into the akuma case; your monster’s being considered a person of interest in his disappearance. Consequently, we were told to hand the whole package off to the task force and then buzz off. It’s not our problem anymore.”

Durand was silent for a moment, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair. “I want on the task force,” he said at last.

“You-” Mosse said, incredulous. He leaned forward over his desk, pointing a finger at Durand like the detective was a disobedient dog. “No. You are not going to get on the task force. It’s a handpicked crew and it’s above both of our pay grades.”

“Really? Because I know for a fact that they want liaison officers from every precinct,” Durand said, leaning back in the chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “You could put my name forward.”

“Oh, why, so you can continue your grudge match against the Purple People-Eater?” Mosse said snarkily.

Durand scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Please. Nothing so banal.”

“Answer’s still no, Durand,” the captain said, turning back to his paperwork.

“I’m sorry, which one of us still owes the other €500 from last poker night?” Durand asked lightly.

Mosse glanced back up at him, unamused. “Detective, are you attempting to blackmail your commanding officer?”

“Oh, by no means, Captain,” Durand said with a smirk. “That would imply that you wouldn’t have to pay me the five hundred if you recommended me for the task force, which is absolutely not the case. I’m just reminding you who has the moral high ground here.”

Mosse’s scowl twitched at the corner. “I won’t have to pay you the five hundred if I win it back from you this weekend.”

“So…that’s a yes?” Durand asked.

“Get out of my office, Durand,” Mosse said with a wave of his hand.

* * *

Mylène stared at the water stain on her ceiling. Her night light cast the room in soft tones of orange. Thirty minutes she’d been in bed, and sleep was no closer than it had been when she’d laid down. And a school night, at that. She heaved a frustrated sigh. 

_Mylène_ , came Hawk Moth’s voice in her head.

Mylène’s eyes widened, in surprise and more than a little fear. She hadn’t expected to hear from the other akuma again. She rolled over and pulled her blanket up, resolutely not responding to the voice. _If I just ignore him, he’ll go away_ , she told herself. _I’ll stay out of trouble._

_Mylène_ , came the voice again. _I wanted to apologize for the last time we spoke._ There was a gentle tapping against the window above her head. _I was frightened for you, is all._

Mylène took a shuddering breath, but did not respond. _Go away, go away, go away_ , she chanted internally, squeezing her eyes shut.

_I paid a visit to the Bruels earlier_ , Hawk Moth said lightly. _Your secret is safe from them._

Mylène snapped upright, panicked. Safe _from_ them, he’d said, not safe _with_ them. The fear she’d felt for herself was nothing compared to the fear she now felt for Ivan’s parents. “You didn’t–”

_Of course not,_ Hawk Moth said, cutting her off. Mylène received the mental impression of a disdainful tongue-click. _Honestly. Even if I **was** that sort of monster, what purpose would it serve? The damage is already done, or it would have been; it’s not as though killing them would un-spill your secret. Lay your fears to rest; the Bruels are unharmed. Moreover, they said nothing to the police, denied all knowledge of your identity._ Hawk Moth’s mental voice took on a somewhat smug tone. _So I bought them a new apartment, instead._

“Oh,” Mylène said, brought up a little short. Guilt at the trouble she’d caused the Bruels was already being replaced by a fidgeting embarrassment, to be so indebted to a stranger. “Um…thank you, for doing that.”

_We fight for them as well,_ Hawk Moth said, telepathically emoting a small shrug. _Akumas have families, spouses, children. We stand to lose our lives, and they stand to lose their loved ones._ The gentle tapping at her window came again. Mylène looked to see a trio of moths buzzing against the glass.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her father in the next room, she cracked her window open. The moths fluttered into the warmth, settling along the headboard of her bed. She chewed her lip, unsure what to say next.

_There’s a gathering tonight. You should come,_ Hawk Moth said.

“No, I-I couldn’t,” Mylène said, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. “You saw what I did last time. I can’t go out again. It’s not safe.”

_It’s precisely **because** of what happened last time that you should come_. Mylène had the sense that if the other akuma was physically present, he would have been leaning closer, intently. _The time has come for us akuma to discuss our collective situation. You know the dangers we face first-hand; you, of all of us, deserve a seat at the table._

Mylène didn’t respond; fear of another catastrophe, discomfort with Hawk Moth and the lingering sense that he _wanted_ something from her, and her crushing shyness all heaped their objections in the way of her going. She fidgeted with her blanket, not looking at the moths.

_There’s safety in numbers_ , Hawk Moth said after she had been silent for a moment. _I want to gather us so we can help each other, learn from each other. Develop and control our powers, and protect what’s left of each other’s ordinary lives._ He chuckled. _And, if I can offer you nothing else in terms of avoiding a repeat of our first meeting, you at least might not be the scariest thing in the room_.

He was right, was the devil of it. She didn’t want to go, but Hawk Moth had a point. Mylène let out a deep sigh, hoping it would take her uncertainties with it. It didn’t, quite, but it was close enough. She raised her head and looked the moths in the eyespots. “Alright. When and where?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly short chapter this week, I apologize ^^;. I've managed to burn through the entire two-week buffer I'd built up before posting this fic wrestling with what was going to be Chapter 5, and is now looking like it will in fact be Chapter 6. As an extension of that, this chapter has been pared down from its first draft and a good chunk of its content moved to what's now Chapter 5.
> 
> I finally get to add the JuleRose tag to this story in good conscience!! I'm excited :3.
> 
> BTW, in case anyone was worried, Rose is not extorting money from her girlfriend via the swear jar. When it fills up, they use the money to take each other on a cute date. Despite the fact that Juleka does approximately 70% of the cursing in the relationship, their financial contributions to the fund are roughly equal because a) one contribution pays for a whole conversation, and b) Juleka carries less cash than Rose, which gives her a certain number of free cusses because maintaining IOUs would, by mutual agreement, be too much trouble.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who leaves comments or kudos! I am too scatterbrained to respond to all of them, but know that I do appreciate them. UwU
> 
> Would anyone be curious about my inspiration playlist for this fic? It's not very long so far, but I'm always looking to add to it.
> 
> Up next: monsters meet at the witching hour.


	5. Midnight Animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawk Moth begins to explain his plans for akuma-kind.

_“Make yourselves sheep, and the wolves will eat you.”_

\- Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Thomas Cushing, 1773

* * *

Adrien’s forearm slammed against the table. “Gah!” he exclaimed in dismay.

“I win,” Ladybug said smugly, sitting back in her chair and preening. After almost a week of no further activity, the Paris police had reluctantly de-escalated their street presence; Adrien had nearly leapt for joy when the akuma girl had finally deemed it safe enough for her to meet him again. On her advice, they were still avoiding any prominent Paris landmarks or heavily trafficked areas. Tonight, they sat in the rooftop dining area of a restaurant that had closed for the night.

“Best three out of five!” Adrien protested, raising his arm again and leaning forward. Ladybug had been less than enthused when he’d proposed arm-wrestling as a use of their scarce free time, even when he’d framed it in terms of testing the extent of their new powers. He’d been forced to apply all of his rogueish charm; when that didn’t work, he’d made sad kitten eyes.

So, naturally, after all that trouble, she was kicking his ass.

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes and an indulgent smile, the red-skinned akuma leaned forward again, clasping his hand in her own. “Loser buys me a drink,” she said.

Adrien blinked. “Wait, how old are you? Because I’m not old enough to drink.”

“Oh! No, no, I meant like from a vending machine!” Ladybug said, releasing his hand to wave her arms frantically. “I’m not old enough to drink either.”

Adrien gave a relieved laugh, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Gotcha. Well, in that case, I’ll have a lemonade after my epic comeback.”

Ladybug snorted. “No, you misunderstood. I said loser buys _me_ a drink. If by some miracle you _do_ beat me this time, I’m buying myself a peach tea to drown my sorrow. You want a lemonade, you’re going to have to reward your own self.” She took Adrien’s hand again. “You ready? On the count of three.”

Adrien nodded. On the count of three, he threw all his strength into the contest, planting his clawed feet on the concrete of the roof and grunting with effort. He managed to drive Ladybug’s arm an inch, two, towards the table. Then her eyes flashed in a way that caused very interesting fluttering feelings in his stomach, and the musculature of her shoulder and arm _roiled_ , twisting like eels in a stocking. With one smooth motion, she drove his arm back down against the cool metal of the table. Adrien groaned, collapsing to the ground in exaggerated defeat, his hand still trapped in hers. “Ugh,” he declaimed dramatically. “I am slain. Laid low by your prowess.” He waited a comedically appropriate beat, and then sprang back upright, bouncing on the pads of his feet. “Best four out of seven?”

“I’m not gonna keep kicking your butt unless you get me my peach tea, tom-cat,” Ladybug said with a wave of her hand. “Go on, shake a leg.”

Straight-faced, Adrien raised his left leg, bent at the knee, and shook it back and forth. This earned him the snort of laughter he’d been gunning for, and he relented. “Alright, be right back,” he said, and turned to go.

He saw something move across the roofs, in the distance.

“Chat Noir?” Ladybug asked after a moment, noticing the change in his posture. Without responding, Adrien leapt up to the top of the roof-access stairs, squinting in the direction he’d seen the movement. There, again – he recognized that silhouette.

“I think I just found our purple friend from the other night,” he said. “Come on, she’s moving pretty fast.” He turned to look back at Ladybug, but she was already beside him, face set with determination.

“Lead the way,” she said.

* * *

Mylène checked her phone again, carefully holding the tiny rectangle in her massive paws. This was the place Hawk Moth had specified, or at least she assumed it was. A brick building, hunched low against the orange night sky; an abandoned factory, by the looks of things. The neighborhood had seen better days; potholes pocked the streets and plywood covered windows like scabs. There were no streetlights on the road below her; even with her monster-form’s improved night vision, she couldn’t see much.

She tucked her phone away and cast a wary look up and down the street. Coast was as clear as it was going to get, she supposed. With inhuman speed and fluidity, like a centipede crawling back into the walls, she flowed headfirst down the side of the building she’d been perched atop and scuttled across the empty street. A row of windows encircled the factory about two-thirds of the way up its height; many of the panes were broken, or missing. Mylène clambered up the wall, talons finding ready purchase between the bricks, and squeezed herself through one of the gaps. Moving as quietly as she could, she dropped onto the catwalk that ran below the windows.

Below her, a group of figures stood around a barrel-fire, a tiny circle of light in the dark, cavernous space. There weren’t many – when Hawk Moth had said a gathering, she was picturing dozens or hundreds of akumas, a crowd she could vanish into. This was…not that.

Mylène crept closer, shyness as much as mistrust informing her stealth. Her ears were peeled for any snippets of the group’s conversation. There was none. The cluster of figures stood in awkward silence, the only noise the crackle of the fire and the crunch of the potato chips that one of the figures was inserting one by one into its mouth. The third eye in her forehead showed Mylène the purple wisps of fear that flowed from the people below her. Unease boiled like a fog machine on Halloween from a man and a woman who each had a protective hand on the shoulders of a young boy whose face was shadowed by a hood and cap. Lesser clouds of fear rose from two other figures; a slender man in a suit sat on a crate, shoes kicked off to reveal splay-toed birds’ feet in place of human ones, and another figure whose back was to Mylène, standing near the edge of the firelight. The last presumably-an-akuma, crunching away at its chips, wasn’t afraid at all. Above their heads, moths fluttered in the flickering light.

 _I’m glad you all could make it_ , came Hawk Moth’s voice in Mylène’s head, loud and nearby. From the way that the figures below started in surprise, she could tell that they’d heard it to. _Thank you for coming out tonight._ The sound of footsteps echoed from the darkness beyond the firelight. Hundreds of moths flitted into view, circling around the fire and the gathered akuma. As the footsteps crossed the factory floor and entered the firelight, Mylène saw Hawk Moth in the flesh for the first time.

The enigmatic akuma was tall, thin, wearing an immaculately tailored suit in black and purple. A cane tapped the concrete in his left hand, too short to be an assistive device for a blind person and too insubstantial to be a mobility aid. His hands were gloved. The moths surrounded him like the halo of a saint, like the plume of a volcano. No, more than that, Mylène now saw - from the neck up, there was nothing but moths where a face and head would have been. Her eyes hurt, looking at it; something wasn’t quite right about the _space_. No matter the angle, it was like looking through a head-shaped hole into a swirling confusion of dusky wings.

Hawk Moth looked up, and Mylène felt a shock run down her spine. From somewhere within the swarm, a pair of royal purple eyes glowed, meeting her own through the darkness. Hawk Moth wordlessly raised his hand in a gesture of beckoning. Sheepishly, Mylène obliged, dropping from the catwalk to land almost soundlessly and walking into the light. She loomed over the others assembled; as she approached, she loomed even larger as her akumatized form soaked up the bursts of panic that her appearance had inspired. Only Hawk Moth and the man at the opposite end of the circle, who’d finished his chips and moved on to a candy bar, showed no unease.

 _For those of you who don’t yet know me, you may address me as Hawk Moth_ , Hawk Moth continued. _Like you, I am what has been termed an ‘akuma.’_ He swept his gaze across the circle; Mylène could tell because each person tensed slightly under the force of his attention.

“Is that the name on your birth certificate?” came an amused drawl from the unafraid akuma standing opposite them. This close, Mylène saw that it was a man in a long woolen pea-coat, worn open over a hoodie and with fingerless knit gloves on his hands. The right half of his face was swathed in bandages.

 _Obviously not_ , came Hawk Moth’s unruffled, unamused response. _Given the current state of affairs, you will understand if I am careful with my privacy._ He raised a gloved hand to indicate the space around them. _My ability to move freely in civil society is what allows me to provide spaces such as this one for us, and to render other forms of assistance._ He dropped his hand, setting it atop the other on his cane. _I would recommend that anyone who still **has** a human life to safeguard adopt an alias for these meetings as well. However, most of you are here because you have shed your chrysalises, unable to hide any longer among the caterpillars; principally, it’s your situation that concerns us tonight. Whatever your hopes may have been to the contrary, trust me when I say that you will not wake up one morning and find that this has all been a dream. The changes you are undergoing are permanent._

“How do you know?” asked the man from the family of three. “That this is permanent, I mean? Isn’t it too soon to say anything like that?”

 _If our transformations were temporary, monsieur, I am confident that I would have found out as much over the **thirty years** since my first metamorphosis_ , Hawk Moth said cuttingly. _In fact, it is more likely that your son’s condition will progressively deepen over the entire course of his life._

Chastised, the man gulped and said nothing further. Hawk Moth continued. _I have been preparing for recent events for some time. There are a number of properties across Paris and beyond, under my ownership through various intermediaries and chains of shell companies, that I intend to maintain as safe houses and bolt-holes for those of us who take their lives and freedom into their hands with every public appearance. To begin with –_

“Sorry we’re late!” called a voice from the darkness, a cheerful challenge in its voice. “Had a hell of a time finding parking. Maybe you should have the next meeting somewhere kind of remote and sinister, so there’s not so much traffic.”

* * *

Adrien looked over at Ladybug to assess if his greeting had been humorous, as he’d intended, or a dud. Between when they’d entered the derelict building and now, the red-and-black had slid outwards from her domino mask to swallow her whole face again. He knew enough by now to know that meant she was on edge. The grin fell from his face.

Most of the people circled around the barrel fire looked startled, even scared, eyes wide and postures defensive. Not all of them, though.

 _Ah, excellent!_ came the not-voice from the night before. A tall figure turned to greet them, arms outstretched. Adrien’s trained eye inspected the suit – _purple velvet, that’s bold and then some; tailoring is **flawless** , I’ll have to ask him where he got it _– before he noticed the swirl of moths where the figure’s head would be. _Oh, that’s weird_.

 _Tonight must be my lucky night,_ the moth-faced man continued. _Unable to track you down again after our last encounter, yet you appear nevertheless._ He turned to the purple-skinned akuma that towered at his side, looking at the duo with three wide yellow eyes. _These good Samaritans arranged your escape from the police the other night_ , he said, gesturing at the two costumed teens. He turned back to the duo. _Please, join us._

Adrien looked at Ladybug for guidance. Not that he could precisely tell, but he thought she was looking back at him. He shrugged slightly. She nodded. They joined the group around the fire.

 _I suppose introductions are in order, at this point_ , the swarm-akuma said somewhat grudgingly. Purple light flickered through the cloud of moths that replaced his head as he turned towards Adrien and Ladybug. _You may call me Hawk Moth. I assembled us tonight to discuss the…shall we say, **particular challenges** that we now collectively face._ _How shall we address you?_

“Ladybug,” said the red-and-black-spotted akuma from beside Adrien. Her arms were crossed defensively in front of her; as she spoke, she uncrossed them, and then re-crossed them. Her posture shifted, hips canted and hands planted against the inside of her biceps rather than gripping them. The mask over her face retreated to its domino form, though her eyes were still invisible beneath it. In an instant, she’d gone from nervous defensiveness to wary confidence. It was impressively expressive. Adrien wondered if she’d ever modelled.

“And I’m Chat Noir,” he said with a cocky grin. He matched her confidence with his own, standing contrapposto with one hand on his hip, and gave a two-fingered salute with the other. “We fight crime.”

“We _do_ crime, Chat, technically,” Ladybug reminded him, amused.

“Whatever, cool cats don’t follow the rules anyway,” Adrien said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We fight for what’s _right_.”

The bandaged man standing opposite Hawk Moth snorted. “I’m loving the dynamic here,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers, one visible eye widening and a grin spreading across his face. “You’re the one from the supermarket attack!” he said, pointing at Ladybug. He swung his finger towards the looming purple monster. “And you’re the one that went on a rampage the other week. Hah! I didn’t realize I was in the presence of Parisian celebrity.”

The monster shuffled from one foot to the other, ducking her head. “It wasn’t a rampage,” she said defensively, her voice incongruously delicate and human for such an intimidating figure.

* * *

“If I’d known you were inviting dangerous criminals to this meeting,” snapped the man who’d asked Hawk Moth if the changes were permanent earlier, “We wouldn’t have come.” He gathered his wife and son closer, defensively.

“Dad!” protested the boy, shrugging his father’s hand off his shoulder, at the same time as his wife hissed “ _Jason!_ ” at him, smacking him in the side with the back of her hand in rebuke.

 _Wicked laws make criminals of virtuous men, M. DuParc_ , Hawk Moth said. He gestured to Mylène where she stood at his shoulder. _Our comrade’s little brush with the law would have played out quite differently if she had been less concerned with not hurting anyone. Besides, consider your options!_ The swarm-akuma’s telepathic voice grew steely. _I would describe them as ‘limited.’_

The man looked like he was about to say something more, but his wife jabbed him in the side with her elbow and he swallowed his retort, scowling. Hawk Moth turned his head to Mylène, looking at her appraisingly. Mylène hoped that he wasn’t going to ask her to introduce herself next. She really was not sure she was up to the task of explaining the whole incident to a crowd of strangers.

Before Hawk Moth could say anything, the bandaged man spoke again. “So are all three of you akumas?” he asked conversationally, pointing at the family with the hand that still held his candy bar. With his free hand, he pulled a can of soda from one of his coat’s pockets, opening it and taking a noisy slurp.

“ _No,_ ” said the man, angrily, before his wife cut him off again.

“It’s our son, Jean,” she said. Jean raised a hand to identify himself, as though there was any ambiguity. “We thought we would be able to hide it for longer, but two days ago…he can’t go to school like this, and we can’t keep him home indefinitely or people will ask questions.”

 _Wait, DuParc?_ Mylène thought, mentally catching up to the conversation. _I go to school with a Jean DuParc_. _Wonder if it’s the same person…_ she wondered, just as the boy pulled his hood down and tugged his cap off. It was indeed the same Jean DuParc that attended Collège Françoise Dupont; Mylène had seen him around, peripherally, but they had never had class together and weren’t friends. She also saw immediately what had concerned his parents. Spreading up the right side of Jean’s face was a harlequin pattern of white and black scales. Even in the low light, the white scales blazed like rhinestones, while the black glittered liquidly; there was no way that could be passed off as makeup, or anything human.

“Nice,” the bandaged man said with a grin, taking another gulp of his drink.

“I showed you mine, you show me yours,” Jean said with a challenging toss of his head at the man’s wrappings.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the other akuma said with relish. “Here, hold this for a second.” He handed his drink to Ladybug without looking at her, and she took it reflexively. Her brows crinkled with irritation once she processed the interaction.

 _Oh no, she’s adorable_ , Adrien realized. That sentiment quickly gave way to irritation on Ladybug’s behalf at the casual arrogance of her treatment. Crashing on its heels came panic that he was _also_ being sexist by thinking she was cute when she was angry.

Meanwhile, the akuma had tossed his empty candy wrapper into the fire and was unwrapping the bandages from around his head. He stuffed them into a coat pocket, and Adrien felt his fur bristling at the sight of his revealed face. The other akuma grinned…and _grinned_.

To Chat Noir’s left, Mylène was unable to contain a short shriek. She clapped her paw over her mouth. Her first thought was _teeth_ , followed by several exclamation points. Diagonally across the man’s face, from jaw to hairline, was an enormous, fanged maw. A cluster of eyes bulged from his right eye socket, goggling to and fro. It was like something out of a nightmare.

With a theatrical air, the akuma pulled a cheap paper crown from a fast-food kids’ meal from a pocket, snapped it open, and sat it on his head. “You can call me… _Don Appétit_ ,” he said with a grin.

There was no immediate reaction.

“You know, like, a pun on _bon appétit_?” he said, arms spread. “Because I have, like…lemme show you…” He unzipped his hoodie and shrugged out of it and his coat in a single motion. He wore only a tank top underneath, the others could now see the welter of mouths and eyes across his arms and torso. “I have _so_ many mouths.” When this explanation still failed to provoke any laughter, Don rolled all of his eyes and huffed. “Fuck you guys, it’s hilarious. I’m a genius.”

Mylène felt sick to her stomach, heart racing with fear at the sight of the other akuma’s mutations. She did her best not to look at him, eyes fixed on the floor. Don Appétit reached over and retrieved his soda from Ladybug’s unresisting grasp, taking another sip. “Anyway, I live alone and the neighbours mind their own business, so if anyone needs somewhere to crash tonight you can hit me up.”

 _Thank you, M. Appétit,_ Hawk Moth said, without evident emotion. _On the topic of places to stay, tonight and in the future, one of the reasons I called you all here was not only to offer you my help, but to ask for yours in turn. There is no way of knowing how long it will take before the people of France can bring the forces within our government that mean us harm to heel - if they even wish to. We must be prepared for a long fight._ His not-voice was growing passionate as he spoke; this, clearly, was what he was interested in, rather than puns and awkward introductions.

 _For the time being my own resources will be sufficient to offer sanctuary to any of us that need it; however, I cannot be everywhere. I must ask those of you who can still move freely through human society to seek out your new brothers and sisters, freshly come into their powers, and let them know that they are not alone. We must stand together, or we will fall separately._ Hawk Moth began to gesture with his cane, as though sketching out the future he described in the air. _As our numbers grow, we will have to organize, as well. We will have to make arrangements for transportation, provisioning, ways to get people out of the country if it comes to that. Either trusted human agents, or those of us who can still pass as human. My resources are vast but not unlimited; eventually there will be questions of financing. And, as matters stand, it seems likely that we will have to defend ourselves._

“What makes you assume there’s gonna be more of us?” Don Appétit asked. He’d finished his soda and moved on to yet another bag of chips, crunching at them with his human mouth and speaking with the monstrous rift in his skull. “Not saying there won’t be, just curious about your reasoning.”

 _It’s no assumption,_ Hawk Moth said coolly. _Let me illustrate. If your mutations have emerged within the past five years, raise your hand._

Everyone present except Hawk Moth and the adult DuParcs raised their hands.

_Keep them up if they have emerged within the past year._

No hands went down.

 _The past six months_.

Only one hand dropped – the man with birds’ feet, who hadn’t yet spoken.

 _In the three decades since I came into my powers, the number of other akuma I encountered would not fill the fingers of both hands_. _Yet, in the past six months alone, I have encountered nearly a dozen akuma above and beyond those gathered here tonight, and heard or been told of a dozen more. Something has **changed**. Humanity went to sleep in one world, and woke in another, and nobody has noticed yet except us and our enemies._ The akuma’s leather gloves creaked, his hands balled into fists. He sighed heavily, and composed himself. When he spoke again, his mental voice sounded tired. _Even before this, there were always rumors. All of the other akuma I had met before this year, save one, have either died or disappeared, and under suspicious circumstances. Consider the suddenness and the intensity of the government’s response – one day France is at peace and we are citizens, and the next they hunt us like animals. There was no crisis that provoked this, no riot or terrorist attack._

“So you’re saying this had been brewing all along,” Ladybug said. “That some shadowy government conspiracy has been hunting akuma for years, but they couldn’t keep it a secret anymore because there were too many of us.”

Hawk Moth spread his hands. _I have no proof, obviously._

“Why?” asked Jean. “I mean, not that I don’t believe you, but what did we ever do to them? What’s their angle? We’re not dangerous, we’re not supervillains, we’re not terrorists. I can’t speak for you all, obviously, but I’m just a regular _collége_ kid.”

 _Oh, but we **are** dangerous, Jean_ , Hawk Moth said. _We are the most dangerous people ever to walk the Earth. Take me, for example. My moths are scattered across Paris; an untraceable, un-hackable surveillance network that can be set up and taken down over the course of hours, days at the most. Any intelligence agency on the planet would kill for such a tool._ Hawk Moth began to pace – stalk, really – back and forth, gesturing with his cane. _Imagine one of us with the ability to cure disease, or to read minds, or to control the weather. Do you think the powers-that-be would tolerate a populace that they could not conscript, could not conquer? What would become of their regimes if we no longer needed to buy their food, their medicines, rent their buildings? What if humankind no longer had to beg for scraps from their table or starve?_

Nobody said anything for a moment. The fur on Adrien’s neck stood on end. Jean looked a little shell-shocked.

It was Appétit who finally spoke, his tone contemplative. “Any of you ever heard of Henrietta Lacks?” There was a general shaking of heads. “She was a black woman, an American. Died of cancer in 1951. Her doctor took cells from the tumor and grew them in a petri dish. He found out that they would _keep_ growing, forever; cancer doesn’t die of old age. Scientists used Henrietta Lacks’ cell line to test medicines, poisons, diseases; they still use it, even today. Hell, they used her cells to make the _polio vaccine_. Millions of dollars of pharmaceutical profit, because of one dead woman. Of course her family hasn’t seen a cent.” The akuma picked a scrap of food from between his teeth, and flicked it into the flames. “Makes you wonder how much they could make off of one of us.”

* * *

“Um, e-excuse me!” came a voice from behind Marinette as she and Chat Noir left the factory, the unlit street pitch-dark around them. She turned. The looming purple-skinned akuma was trailing behind them, shoulders hunched nervously.

 _Her voice sounds familiar_ , Marinette thought. It nagged at her, but she couldn’t place it.

“You’re called Ladybug and Chat Noir, right?” the akuma asked, hooking her claws together nervously. “I’m M- uh, I haven’t really come up with a good code name yet. You can call me…Horrificator?” She drew the word out into a nervous question. “Anyway, Hawk Moth said that you helped distract the police the other night so I could get away. I just, um, wanted to say thanks.” The big akuma shuffled her feet, gaze fixed on the ground. Marinette felt her heart melt a little.

“No problem!” Chat Noir said, giving Horrificator a wink and a grin.

“We’re just glad no one was seriously hurt,” Marinette agreed. _Except for the cop I tazed. Hope that didn’t give him nerve damage or anything…_ she thought guiltily.

"Me too,” Horrificator said with a sigh of relief. “I feel bad, I caused such a mess. It was really my fault, too.”

“Why so?” Chat Noir asked. “Were you just out in public and they spotted you, or what? It didn’t-” He paused mid-sentence, ears swiveling, posture tense. “Hold that thought.”

After a moment, he relaxed. “Thought I heard a car, but it drove by. We should probably get out of sight, though, if we’re gonna talk.” He checked the time on his phone. “Oh, yikes, nevermind, it’s past midnight. I’ve got work before school tomorrow, I’ve gotta go.” With a two-finger salute to Marinette, Chat Noir jogged across the street, clambered up the side of a building, and was off.

“It is a little late,” Marinette said reluctantly. “I should probably get home, I’ve got school as well. Do you have your phone on you? I can tell you how to get in touch with me.”

Horrificator nodded, pulling it from a drawstring sports bag that was comically tiny slung across her broad shoulders. Marinette gave her instructions on how to download a secure messaging app, and her number.

“…I’m really glad to have people to talk about this with,” the purple akuma confessed, once they were done.

Marinette smiled. “I know the feeling.” She tapped her fingers along her jaw, a thought occurring to her. “Hey, I was going to bring the others a care package once they get moved into the next safehouse. Would you like to come along?”

Horrificator’s expression brightened with excitement, and she nodded enthusiastically.

“Great. I’ll bring you some too. You can tell me all about what happened last week,” Marinette said with an encouraging grin. “I’ll see you then!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter this time, since it's what was left over after Chapter 4 expanded out of control. I appreciate your patience.


	6. Crackdown, Pt. 1 - Housewarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alya tells Marinette about her big new idea. Nino's got a lot on his plate. Ladybug and Horrificator visit the other akuma at Hawk Moth's safehouse. Some magic tricks are performed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! As you may have noticed, I missed a couple scheduled updates there. Although I didn't make any announcement about it (my bad), I was refraining from posting in solidarity with the ML Blackout general fandom strike, in protest against art and content theft and reposting. Thankfully, though, the strike gave me some time to work on this next chapter, which has wildly ballooned past my initial size predictions and is looking like it's going to be at least a three-parter (13,600 words and counting). This will be part 1/?. What's the difference between a multi-part chapter and the same content, spread over multiple independent chapters, you ask? Well, this way, I can justify only finding one chapter-opening quote for the whole bundle. Enjoy!
> 
> Content warning for brief alcohol consumption.

 

_“Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.”_

\- William Pitt the Younger

* * *

Nino dreamed he was a frog.

The sun was hot overhead, but the reeds offered shade as he crawled through the mud of the riverbank. Mosquitos buzzed, but Nino wasn’t hunting. A shadow passed overhead, and he froze.

No, Nino wasn’t hunting. He was being hunted.

A beak jabbed at him from above, and he leapt, sliding below the water with a _plop_. It should have been cool and refreshing, but underneath the river’s surface it was just as hot and sticky as the day above. He swam frantically, struggling to put distance between himself and the heron, but all the strength was gone from his limbs. His lungs burned with the need for air – _wait, can’t frogs breathe underwater?_ , came a thought, but it evaded him with the characteristic slipperiness of dreams.

Above him, the bird cawed. Nino knew he had to leap, had to swim, had to get away, but he was frozen. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. He could see the bird overhead, peering down at him through two rippling inches of water. Still, it did not strike; it only cawed – again, and again, and again. The noise was deafening. His ears rang with it.

* * *

Nino snapped awake with a shuddering gasp, and immediately choked on the mouthful of froth he’d just inhaled. Coughing, he fumbled for his blaring alarm. He missed, and his alarm clock clattered to the floor. He left it there, still squawking, and stumbled to the bathroom. He spat into the sink, trails of transparent goo hanging from his lips. “Ugh,” he said, and spat again. Turning the faucet on, he cupped a mouthful of water in his hands and swirled it in his mouth. His tongue prodded at the lump – he refused to use the word _nozzle_ , which was really what it was – on the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t stop worrying at it, in the same way one was always chewing at a cold sore.

Spitting again, he looked at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were only getting darker, it seemed. He yawned. _Be nice if I could get a night’s sleep, like I don’t have enough problems_ , he thought grumpily. _School is too uncool._

He thumped his forehead against the cool glass, shutting his aching eyes, his alarm still blaring plaintively from the floor. “Petition to let Nino Lahiffe stay home forever and not have to do his homework on account of being an X-Man,” he mumbled.

* * *

“Aurore?”

It was not a small effort for Aurore Beauréal to maintain her smile as she heard Mireille’s gentle voice saying her name. She turned in her seat to look at her classmate. “Mireille?” she said, matching the other girl’s questioning tone with her own.

“I just wanted to say congratulations on making it to the quarterfinals for the KIDZ+ competition,” Mireille said with one of those earnest, lovable smiles of hers. “It’ll be nice to have a familiar face around. I’m rooting for you! Let’s both give it our all.”

“Awww, thanks, Mireille! I’m really glad I’ll be competing against you too,” Aurore said, her smile radiating sunlight. _I’ll knock your fucking teeth out, bitch_ , she said in the privacy of her own head.

Mireille gave one of her shy little laughs – _I hate you, God, what the hell do you have to be afraid of, just **look me in the fucking eyes** _ – and headed back to her seat with a little wave. Aurore could feel her left eyelid twitching as she turned back to her notes. It did that when she was stressed. Rather than studying for the quiz that was due to start in ten minutes, however, she found herself fuming at the mere existence of her gentle, raven-haired classmate. Stupid Mireille, with her stupid quiet voice and her stupid desire to be friends with everyone and her stupid haircut and her stupid – _God_ , Aurore could just _kill_ her.

Beneath the death grip of her right hand, her water bottle froze solid with a _snap_. Aurore’s eyes darted to it in panic. With a quick glance around – no one was looking her way, and her seat-mate Asami didn’t seem to have noticed – she snatched her hand away, hiding it in her lap. She looked down at it. After a moment, she bunched it into a fist so her fingers would stop shaking.

* * *

"Order number 413!” called the cashier. “One large cheese, one large Hawaiian, and two two-liters?”

“That’s me,” the akuma said with a smile as he moved up to the counter.

The cashier’s face brightened. “Oh, hey, man! Haven’t seen you around in a while. Thought something might have happened to you! I didn’t recognize you at first; what happened to your face?”

“Chemical burn,” the akuma lied smoothly. “It’s pretty grisly. Got a fat worker’s comp check coming though.” He winked with his unbandaged eye.

“Haha, right on, man. Stick it to ‘em,” the cashier said, holding his hand out for a fistbump. The akuma obliged him. “You have a good day now!”

“Thanks, you too,” said the akuma. An odd expression crossed the cashier’s face. Then, with a sinking feeling, the akuma realized that the words had not come from the mouth on his face. He forced his smile not to falter. “I’ll see you around,” he said, paying attention to which mouth he was speaking with this time, and quickly left the pizzeria.

 _Well, I can never go back there again_ , he thought to himself as he sat the pizzas in the passenger seat of his car.

* * *

Pinning the pizzas between his hip and the wall of the alley, he tapped the combination on the keypad. The unmarked metal door unlocked with an audible _thunk_. He tugged it open and pulled it shut behind him, stepping briskly down the steep staircase that ran parallel to the alleyway outside. “Knock knock!” he called as he rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs into the space that stretched under the street. The ceiling was low, the mortar between the bricks yellowed with age. “Pizza delivery!”

“Welcome back,” said Xavier Ramier, the feathered akuma, with a weary wave of a taloned hand. “It has been excruciatingly boring while you were gone.”

“Oh, cool, pizza!” Jean said, snapping his handheld game shut and stuffing it in a pocket before running over.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Don Appétit said, raising the box that the boy had grabbed for out of his reach. “Wait your turn.” He set the pizzas on the folding card table that stood, comically isolated, in the center of the empty floor. The bag of sodas followed, as did a clump of napkins and a stack of plastic cups produced from the seemingly bottomless pockets of his coat. “One Hawaiian, one cheese, and soda. Eat up.”

Jean and Ramier wrinkled their noses in unison. “Pineapple on pizza?” Jean said, skeptically.

“You couldn’t have gone for a nice order of Chinese instead?” Ramier said plaintively.

Appétit raised a hand, pointing at one of them and then the other. “Fuck you guys,” he said, firmly but without hostility. Catching sight of the third full-time resident of the decomissioned World-War-II-era subway station that Hawk Moth had converted into one of his safe houses peering into the pizza boxes from the corner of his eye, he whirled, switching to Arabic. “ _Careful, that one’s got pork on it._ ”

Nour al-Tariq scowled up at him, her eyes burning - literally. The last akuma’s skin was the color and texture of fire-whitened charcoal; her eyes and mouth glowed like live coals. “ _I know what a Hawaiian pizza is_ ,” she said tartly. “ _I’m not some hick that’s never seen fast food before. I was just checking to see which one was which._ ” She straightened to her full height, towering an inch or two over him, and haughtily took a bite of a slice of cheese pizza.

The mouthy akuma raised his hands in surrender, refraining from further comment. “Anyway, Monsieur Pigeon,” he said, turning back to Ramier. “I arranged a storage unit for you, and the movers will be by for your things in a few days. I can take you back tonight to pack up whatever you need to keep with you, though I’d recommend you keep it light. _Nour, did you need to get anything from wherever you were staying?_ ”

Ramier looked like he was restraining himself from preening at the nickname, rather than resenting it. Nour, chewing on a slice of cheese pizza, shook her head. “ _I was living with my cousins,_ ” she said. _“There’s nothing there I can’t replace._ ”

“Wish this place had any actual electrical outlets,” Jean grumbled from around his own mouthful of pizza. “All my stuff’s running out of charge.”

“You probably shouldn’t be using your cell phone,” Appétit said conversationally, twisting the cap off of one of the two-liters and lifting it directly to his mouth. “Hell, take your SIM card out, you know they can trace you through those.” He tugged his bandages aside and lowered a slice of pizza into the maw that split his face. “Mmm. Whoever put pineapple on pizza for the first time was a genius.”

* * *

“I’ve been thinking about starting a blog,” Alya said without preamble when Marinette took her seat beside her.

Marinette blinked. “Alya, don’t you have like six blogs?” She did a brief mental tally. School blog, which Alya was in charge of for the journalism club; comics fandom blog; personal blog; secret vent blog that Marinette knew existed but had never seen; comics _discourse_ blog…well, that was only five.

Alya conceded the point with an eye-roll and a hand-wave. “A _new_ blog, Marinette. A _serious_ blog.” She leaned in close, eyes bright. “I want to get people talking about this _superpowers_ business.”

Marinette let out a high, nervous laugh. “Wha-what sort of stuff do you want them to say about it?” she asked. “I mean, they’re already talking about it a lot on the news and stuff, right?”

Alya scoffed. “Yeah, sure, if you call ‘blindly allowing one party to entirely frame the terms of the debate and just accepting everything the government tells you without any attempts at independent verification or investigative journalism’ _talking about it_. God, I could _scream_.”

…She did have a point, Marinette conceded. Before she could respond, Alya whirled to Nino, who’d just walked in and sat down. “Nino, you agree that it’s bullshit that none of the major newspapers or news channels are even attempting to question anything the government is telling us about this whole superpowers thing, right?”

“It’s totally bogus,” Nino agreed, without a moment’s hesitation. “Like, come on, do some digging, guys. Do we even know who’s supervising this new inter-agency task force?” He adjusted his cap emphatically.

“ _Thank_ you,” Alya said, preening. “All the reporting is totally one-sided. Ugh, man, I would _kill_ to get an interview with an actual akuma,” she said. Marinette and Nino simultaneously froze at her words, identical shaky grins plastered on their faces. Alya didn’t seem to notice. “Just to see if _anything_ we’ve been told about them is true. I have so many questions! Like, how did they get their powers – was it a government experiment, was it black magic, are they aliens, did they just wake up with them one day? Are they an organization, like the government is saying? If they got their powers artificially, that would make sense – but if so, then what are the organization’s goals? How was it founded?”

Marinette wasn’t going to ask Alya the obvious question, which was ‘Alya, how would you even find a real akuma to interview?’, because she knew her best friend well enough to know that Alya had a worrying habit of finding _answers_ to questions like that. The less Alya was thinking about how to track down some poor mutant to squeeze all the answer-juice out of, the less likely said mutant was to be the one sitting next to her.

“How would I even find a real akuma to interview?” Alya said, hand on her chin thoughtfully. Marinette resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. “I mean, it couldn’t be anonymous – I’d have to have some sort of visual or documentary proof that they were an akuma, or everyone would accuse me of faking it. But no one would blow their cover for the sake of an interview, either, so none of them would be willing to talk to me. I guess I’d have to find a way to talk to one of them whose cover has already _been_ blown…”

Alya’s words sparked an idea in Marinette, her blue eyes widening. _Well, hold on,_ she thought. _This might actually be a good opportunity!_ _I don’t think I can talk to Alya as Ladybug, she’d recognize me for sure, but if we could find a way for Horrificator or even Hawk Moth or one of the others to safely meet with her, we could really try to explain ourselves! I’m sure she’d be a sympathetic ear, too_.

“I think it’s a great idea, Alya,” she said, her forced smile giving way to a genuine one. “I’m sure they’d appreciate a chance to tell their side of the story. Nobody likes not being allowed to speak up for themselves.”

“Y-yeah,” Nino agreed, with an uncharacteristic stutter. “It’s not cool at all.”    

* * *

“Y-yeah,” Nino managed to say. “It’s not cool at all.”

Nino had known Marinette since they were in primary school. She’d always been kind, and a good listener, and frankly terrifying to be on the other side of a fight from, albeit somewhat of a space cadet. And she’d always been cute, too. As he looked at the pigtailed girl who sat behind him, though, Alya’s continued words fading into background noise, he was confronted with a sudden and spectacularly inconvenient revelation. Namely, that when Marinette smiled with that particular light in her eyes that meant she’d just had an idea, she was not just cute. She was _punishingly_ beautiful. The sort of beautiful that made Nino want to volunteer to be interviewed for Alya’s blog, and pay no heed to the consequences, and nevermind that he didn’t have the first clue what ‘his side of the story’ as… an _a-word_ … even _was_. He gulped.

He was so, so boned.

* * *

Maybe it was only fitting that Nino ended up opening his stupid mouth around the _other_ unfairly beautiful person in his life, later that day.

“You ever wonder what it would be like to have superpowers?” he blurted to Adrien while they ate their lunch on a bench by the Seine.

Adrien blinked his big green eyes. He was probably puzzled at the direction the conversation had suddenly taken, Nino thought – they hadn’t been talking about anything relating to the akuma, or comics or superhero movies or any topic with an immediate link to Nino’s question.

“Like, everyone thinks it would be awesome, right?” Nino continued, hurrying to explain himself before Adrien grew suspicious. “Sort of like you with the whole teenage heartthrob, my-dad’s-a-multimillionaire thing.”

“It is, indeed, not as sweet as it might appear at first glance,” Adrien agreed, leaning back and nodding sagaciously. “Even though I do have a halfpipe _and_ a climbing wall in my bedroom.”

“God, don’t remind me,” Nino said, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re lucky you’re cute, rich boy.”

Adrien laughed at that. “So what wouldn’t be awesome about superpowers?” he asked, curious. “I think it’d be pretty cool to have, like, super-speed or to be able to fly.”

“Well, yeah, sure, having an _awesome_ power would be awesome,” Nino said. “But what if you get a power that’s totally chunks? Like super-farts, or the ability to blow giant mucus bubbles out of your mouth, or something totally lame like that.”

Adrien quirked an eyebrow, evidently considering it. “Yeah, or I suppose the powers could have side effects or something,” he said. “Like, I bet if you had super-hearing or super-smell it would actually be pretty horrible to live in a city all the time. Cars smell _awful_ , Nino.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Nino said, gesturing formlessly with his hands. “I dunno. Sometimes I feel like people don’t always think this stuff through all the way.” His gaze fell to his tattered sneakers, contemplative.

Adrien reached over and patted him on the shoulders. “Nino,” he said, voice serious. “I promise to never laugh at you when you make your superhero debut as Flatulence Boy.”

Nino snorted. “Thanks, dude,” he said, his worries dissipating slightly. He turned to look at Adrien, and was struck again, as he so often was, at what a fundamentally good heart his friend had. As the afternoon sun made a halo of the boy’s hair, the desire to tell Adrien everything rose in Nino’s throat like desperation.

Instead, he swallowed it back down. “We should see if Marinette and Alya wanna get lunch tomorrow,” he said, taking another sip of his soda. “You missed it ‘cause you came late from your photoshoot, but Alya was saying she wants to do an interview for her blog with a real live akuma.”

Adrien choked on his hummus-laden pita wedge, leaning forward and pounding on his chest.

"Whoah, bro, you okay?” Nino asked, concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” Adrien said, washing the stray food down with a gulp of water. “An interview with an akuma, huh?”

“Yeah. I’m not even sure where she’d find one, what with the whole ‘hiding among us in secret’ deal, but you know Alya.” Nino shrugged. “Once she’s revved up into special interest mode, there’s no stopping her.”

Adrien made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement. As he leaned back, one arm flung over the bench and a foot propped up on the opposite knee – the very picture of effortless, casual relaxation – a thoughtful, feline grin played about his face.

* * *

_LB: Think you can make it out tonight? Hr. and I were gonna bring the others at the safe house a care package & introduce ourselves._

_CN: Work’s supposed to run late tonight._

A row of crying emojis punctuated Chat Noir’s text to her. Marinette frowned in concern. _Will that be safe, with your transformation?_ she asked. _You said you couldn’t always control the start time, right?_

A shrug emoji. _I should be fine. I’ll let you know if you have to come rescue me. xoxo_

Marinette huffed an exasperated sigh. She couldn’t help but feel that Chat Noir was not treating the matter of his identity being exposed with sufficient concern. And also that he was something of a flirt. Tucking her phone into her pocket, she raked another armful of pastries from the bakery shelves into the box she held.

“Thanks again for letting me take the day’s leftovers for my study group tomorrow, Mom,” she said over her shoulder.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Sabine said cheerfully as she closed out the cash register. “It’s good you waited until after your father had gone upstairs for the night to ask. You know how he is, he would have insisted on baking something fresh for you to take with you.”

Marinette chuckled. “Dad does have his baker’s pride,” she agreed. “All my friends love everything you two make, even if it’s not still warm from the oven.” She gave her mother an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Sleep well, dear,” Sabine said as Marinette scampered up the back stairs to her room, box of pastries slung under her arm.

* * *

“Hey!” came a cheerful call from behind her. Mylène still almost jumped out of her skin, hair-tentacles bristling. Ladybug walked across the roof towards where she perched on a chimney stack, a large box under one arm.

“Hey,” Mylène said with a small wave and an unintentionally toothy smile. “What’s that?”

"Housewarming gift!” the masked girl said, hefting the box. With a start, Mylène recognized the familiar logo on the side. “ _Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie_, purveyors of the finest pastries and baked goods Paris has to offer! The macarons are to _die_ for.” A smile played at Ladybug’s lips, as though she was enjoying some private joke. “I’m a big fan.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s right near my…I’ve heard of them, yeah,” Mylène said, stumbling over her own words in a panic. “My, um, my friend says they’re really good.” _My friend Marinette is literally the daughter of the owners, I am extensively familiar with Tom & Sabine’s,_ she refrained from saying. That would _definitely_ have been a bit too big of a clue about where to start looking for her human identity.

Well, on the upside, Ladybug was definitely not wrong about Tom & Sabine’s being the best bakery in Paris. Mylène wondered if there were any pain au chocolats in there; those were her favorites…

Ladybug giggled, and Mylène realized she had been staring at the box and drooling. “Oh! Uh, sorry,” she said, wiping her mouth.

“So where is the safe house?” Ladybug said, looking around. “This is the address you gave me, right?”

“Oh, no, yeah, this is the place,” Mylène confirmed. “Um, lemme see what Hawk Moth said…” She pulled her phone out, scrolling back through her texts. “There should be a door in the alley around back. Thhhhh _at_ way.” She hesitantly began to point one way, then corrected herself mid-word and pointed another.

The two akuma descended; Mylène clambered part of the way down and dropping the remainder to land with a _whump_ in the alley, scattering scraps of litter, while Ladybug lowered herself smoothly by one extended arm, the other still holding the box of baked goods. After a moment’s searching, they located the door – painted an inconspicuous brown, flush with the wall.

“This must be it,” Ladybug said. She pointed to a small silhouette of a moth, etched in the metal above the keypad next to the door. “What’s the combination?”

Mylène checked her phone again. “It’s, uh…oh my God.” She buried her face in one immense hand.

“What’s the matter?” Ladybug asked, concerned.

“The keycode is hashtag-six-six-six,” Mylène groaned, her voice muffled by her hand.

Ladybug smacked her hand to her forehead. “I cannot _believe_ …” she said, punching the numbers on the pad. She continued to mutter under her breath about unrepentant meme japery as they descended the narrow staircase.

* * *

A burst of delighted laughter greeted them as they entered the main body of the safehouse. The bald, ash-skinned woman whose name Marinette hadn’t asked the other night was swiping her hand back and forth between the upraised hand of one Jean DuParc and the queen of spades that floated, gently revolving, an inch or two above the rest of the deck of cards held in his other hand.

“That is your, _zaema_...special-ness?” the woman asked in accented French, leaning down to squint at the card.

“Nope. Just a party trick,” Jean said with a smug grin, catching the card with the thumb and index finger of his full hand as he dropped his empty hand, releasing it from whatever force had suspended it. He deftly tucked it back into the deck and dramatically sprung the cards from one hand to the other.

"Oh, you can do card tricks?” Horrificator asked from beside Marinette. “That’s so cool!”

Jean and the woman turned, eyes widening in alarm. The trick interrupted, the cards went flying. When he saw who it was, Jean visibly relaxed, although the woman remained tense. “Oh, hey! Sorry, you startled us,” Jean said, quickly gathering the scattered playing cards. “We were expecting M. Appétit.” He stood. “I’m Jean, this is Mlle al-Tariq. You’re called Ladybug, right? And you’re Horrificator?”

Marinette nodded, as did Horrificator beside her. “We brought you a housewarming gift,” she said, raising the box.

“Oooh, Tom & Sabine’s!” Jean said, eyes widening. He smacked Nour on the shoulder excitedly with the back of his hand. “That’s the _good shit_. C’mon, you gotta have some before Appétit comes back and eats it all.”

“Alright, what have I missed?” called the feathered akuma, the sound of a flushing toilet audible as he closed the door he’d emerged from behind him. “Oh! Hello. We didn’t realize you’d be stopping by.” He gestured ironically to their surroundings. “We would have tidied the place up a bit.”

“We come bearing gifts,” Ladybug said, gesturing to the box of pastries sitting on the table. Nour was peering inside curiously; Jean was enthusiastically tearing into a baguette with his teeth and bare hands.

“Ah, thank you kindly! I’m Xavier, by the way. Xavier Ramier,” the older man said, taking a seat. “Jean, don’t be a barbarian.”

“I don’t have any utensils!” the boy protested around a mouthful of bread.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of five akuma companionably tucking into their food. Ramier was the first one to speak. “So how long has it been since you all began to show your mutations?” He held up a feathered arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbow. “It’s been about nine months since my first feathers came in.”

“About two and a half months,” Horrificator said. “I had a bad fever and cramps, at first I thought it was just my, um….well, anyway, it pretty much happened all at once.” She wolfed down another pain au chocolat. “How about you, Ladybug?”

Marinette did a quick mental tally. “A little less than a month, for me,” she said. Her mouth twisted with amusement and perhaps some bitterness. “I literally just…woke up like this.”

“I also had bad fever,” Nour said. “When I change. Two days, I felt like I was on fire.” She held out an arm, red glowing through cracks in her wooden skin like veins. “Then, I _was_ on fire. Was very funny. Also then all of my hair falls out.” Her tone, in contrast to her words, did not indicate that she had found it very amusing.

“Mlle. al-Tariq was sleeping under a bridge for two days before Hawk Moth found her,” Jean explained. “She transformed at work and she couldn’t go back to her cousin’s place where she was staying. M. Appétit speaks some Arabic so he’s been able to translate for her.”

Nour scowled, stray sparks drifting from her eyes. “I am still learning French,” she said, giving the impression that if the French language had been a person, she and it would have already come to blows. “Almost as bad as English.”

“So what are you-all’s actual _powers_?” Jean asked, leaning forward with wide eyes and an eager smile. “I mean, if you have some, other than the physical changes. I do, not to brag or anything.”

“I can communicate with birds,” Ramier said. “I mean, I _always_ had a spiritual connection with my darling pigeons, but now it’s _much_ more robust.” He preened, radiating happiness. “And I can sort of understand other species also – crows and such. It’s like talking to someone with a very thick accent.”

Marinette stretched her arm under the table, curving it around to tap Jean on his opposite shoulder. He turned in surprise, and then groaned. “Ugh, you got me,” he said. “So you’re super-stretchy?”

“I’m also really strong. And maybe bulletproof? It’s unclear,” Marinette said. “I got shot once and it bruised pretty bad but it didn’t kill me. Not particularly eager to try it again.”

“Word to that,” Jean agreed, tapping his pastry against hers in a toast.

“How about you, Horrificator?” Marinette asked. “Your transformation is fueled by fear, right?”

The purple-skinned akuma blinked her three eyes in surprise. “Yeah, I, um, I get bigger the more scared people are of me. And I can spit this purple goo that hardens really fast and is pretty tough. How’d you know?”

“Hawk Moth told me,” Marinette said.

Horrificator frowned in confusion, which was very odd-looking because of the presence of a third eye in the middle of her brow’s wrinkle zone. “I don’t think I ever told him that,” she said. “I wonder how he knew…”

 _Enhanced empathic powers are among my secondary abilities_ , came Hawk Moth’s mental voice. _Plainly put, I can always sense the emotional tenor of a situation._ Marinette jumped, startled, as did everyone else.

“Have you been listening this whole time?” she asked hotly, looking up at the omnipresent moths that fluttered around the naked bulbs dangling from the safehouse ceiling. It was pretty unpleasant to realize that someone who was technically their host had been eavesdropping on their entire conversation, and did not make her trust the mysterious akuma any more than she already did – which was not much.

 _Not actively. There are many matters that demand my attention,_ the mind-voice answered diffidently. _Superior multitasking is another gift of my transformation, but even I have limits._

Marinette scowled, but opted not to pursue the argument.

“How about you, Jean?” Horrificator asked. “You said you had powers. What are they?”

“Well, just the one, really,” Jean said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. “Lemme show you, hang on a sec…” He stood from the table and darted off, returning with an empty soda bottle. He posed dramatically, holding the bottle upright with one hand, the other hand hovering above it. “Alright, you ready?” He waited until he was confident everyone was watching. “And… _voila_!” With a loud clap, he brought his hands together. The bottle vanished from between them in a shower of sparks and a plume of glittering grey smoke. He showed his hands to his audience, theatrically tugging at his shirt to demonstrate that he literally had nothing up his sleeve.

“Where did it go?” Marinette asked, curious.

Jean winced. “I’m…not actually sure? Nothing I’ve vanished has come back yet. I don’t know if I’m destroying things or just sending them somewhere else…” He looked at his feet, the excitement draining out of him. “Which is unfortunate,” he concluded, with a shuddering breath.

There was clearly a story there. The boy’s downcast expression tugged at Marinette’s heartstrings. _I don’t want to pry, though_ , she thought, debating with herself. Before she could make up her mind what to say, there was the sound of footsteps on the staircase behind them.

“Lemme tell you, it is a major pain in the ass that none of you can help me unload shit from the car – oh, hey, what’s up?” Don Appétit said, rounding the corner into view, arms full of an eclectic collection of supplies. He unceremoniously dumped a plastic carton of gasoline and what appeared to be a pair of sleeping bags on the floor, kicking them out of the way of the door, and set some grocery bags down next to them with somewhat more care. Without looking, he extracted a bag of chips and a garishly-colored jumbo can of some off-brand alcoholic energy drink from the bags and strolled over to join the group, snagging a folding chair from where they leaned against the wall and flipping it open as he went. “So what were we talking about?” he asked brightly as he sat, cracking his can open and taking a loud slurp.

“We were just discussing whether or not we all have powers in addition to our overt physical deformities,” Ramier said.

Appétit tugged his bandages off, and Horrificator made a small sound of distress from beside Marinette. She looked over, concerned; the big akuma was fixedly avoiding looking at Appétit's face with any of her three eyes. “Huh. I guess I’d assumed that the powers emerged _because_ of the mutations, not in addition to them,” the mouthy akuma was saying. He pointed at Marinette. “Ladybug, based on the video I’ve seen of you, you’ve got like a Mr. Fantastic type of deal going on, right?”

It took Marinette a moment to place the reference – American comics were more Alya’s speed than hers. “That’s right,” she said with a nod.

“You any stronger or tougher than you used to be? No offense, but you don’t look like you spend enough time at the gym to knock a grown man off his feet with one punch.”

“I am stronger, yeah,” Marinette said. “Why do you ask?”

Appétit shrugged. “Doesn’t seem productive to try to sort out what you can do into ‘mutation’ and ‘power.’ Whatever you’re made of now instead of person-meat, that’s what makes you strong, and stretchy, and gives you polka dots. Rather than assuming that Jean can make things vanish in puffs of smoke and also coincidentally is turning into a snake-clown, makes more sense to me to say that the scales are what _let_ him poof stuff.” A thought appeared to occur to him. “Hey, Nour,” he said, and then asked her something in Arabic. In response, she held out her arm and clenched her fist. With a crackle, her forearm burst into flames, the intensity of the blaze throwing stray wisps of hair back from Marinette’s face. After a moment, the flames died down to nothing; Nour’s arm was blackened and webbed with glowing embers, chunks of the outer layer having sloughed off. It didn’t appear to bother her, though, as she let her arm fall to her side and resumed eating her pastry. “Case in point,” Appétit said, pointing at her. “Oh, cool, who brought the food?” When Marinette raised her hand, he cackled and clapped her on the back heartily. “Atta _girl_! That’s what I’m talking about.”

Marinette scowled, rubbing her shoulder. _This guy is really starting to get on my nerves_ , she thought. “So what do your mouths let you do, other than take twice your share of the food?” she asked, striving for and not quite managing a joking tone.

“I am so glad you asked,” Appétit said around a double mouthful of croissant. Two mouths, and he somehow _still_ always managed to be talking with his mouth full. He peered inside the bakery box. “Anyone mind if I just dump the rest onto the table? It’ll be easier if I have something to demonstrate on.”

 _Oh, so my personal space is meaningless, but the baked goods get permission asked before you manhandle them?_   Marinette thought bitterly. _…Well, then again, considering the baked goods…_

“Alright, let me serve it up for you,” Appétit said, tugging one of his gloves off. On the tip of his right index finger, a tiny mouth had sprouted, waggling a tongue insouciantly. “On my one hand, inconveniently placed mouth. In the other, empty cardboard carton.” Standing up, he tossed the box in a leisurely underhand throw. It skidded to a halt some distance away from the table. Squinting, he pointed his finger at it, miming as though he was shooting a pistol. “Annnnd...”

There was a confusing moment. Marinette had the impression of teeth, and motion, of nonsensical immensity and terrifying speed. Possibly there was some sort of sound. Her eyes refocused, and she saw the box.

Or, rather, what was left of the box. A neat, scalloped crescent had been punched out of it, obliterating all but one corner. Beyond, Marinette could see eerily smooth gouges in the concrete of the safehouse floor. It looked…well, it looked like a giant cartoon mouth had taken a bite out of it.

“And, you will see, the mouth in question has now vanished,” Appétit said, holding his hand over the table and turning it to and fro to display the totally normal tip of his finger. “The bigger the mouth, the longer the range and the bigger and stronger the bite. I can do it with some of the eyes, too. Depends. I’m always growing new ones, so I think it’s like a hamster-teeth type of deal where I have to eat stuff every so often to keep them at a manageable number.”

Nour asked a question in Arabic, and Appétit frowned. “You know, now that you mention it I _don’t_ ever poop any of it out. That _is_ odd,” he mused. He then repeated this answer to her in the appropriate language.

Marinette had gotten up from the table while Appétit was speaking. A thoughtful frown on her face, she ran her fingertips along one of the gouges carved by his phantasmal fangs in the floor. Objectively considered, his power wasn’t any more frightening than Jean’s, or Horrificator’s, or even her own. She wasn’t sure why seeing it had made her uneasy. He’d even taken care to throw the box well away from the rest of them, taking no chances that they’d be caught in the path of the effect; he might be an arrogant jerk, but he obviously knew his power was dangerous.

She let out a huff of irritation through her nose, and went to rejoin the group.

* * *

“So I’ve been dying to ask,” Appétit asked, a while later and with more of the alcoholic energy drink in him. “Like…what happened with you two and the cops? Like how’d that all go down?”

Marinette cast a glace sideways at Horrificator. The other girl _had_ said that she’d tell them the story of her kaiju escapade when they spoke last night; then again, if Marinette wasn’t relishing the thought of telling _her_ story to this crowd, she couldn’t imagine Horrificator was any more eager.

“It’s stupid,” Horrificator said, eyes downcast. “Not that exciting.” One of her clawed fingers was notching the edge of the table as she fidgeted with it.

“I was out shopping for my parents,” Marinette said, deciding to jump on this conversational grenade for Horrificator’s sake. Telling her story to Chat Noir had been draining enough; the incident was no longer so fresh and raw, but this was a considerably less friendly audience. Her tone was tight as she continued. “There was another akuma at the supermarket. An older man. Everyone was afraid of him, keeping their distance, but he wasn’t hurting anyone. Just the opposite. He was having trouble controlling his power, _he_ was the one who needed help. Then the police showed up.” She stared at the chipped paint of the table, debating how to continue.

“And you put two of ‘em in the hospital,” Appétit said. Marinette’s gaze snapped up to him, anger blossoming in her chest; he had no right to take that smug tone with her. Her anger faltered, though, when rather than a smug grin of condescension she found the other akuma wearing a boyish grin of enthusiasm. His hand was outstretched for a fist bump. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging,” he said.

“It’s not something to celebrate,” she said, voice cold.

Appétit shrugged, dropping his hand. “How ‘bout you, Creature Feature?” he asked, with a toss of his head at Horrificator. “Promise, this is a judgment-free zone. Look at me, I’m getting drunk on a weeknight with a bunch of teenagers. Do I look like I have any room to be criticizing other peoples’ decisions?”

With a shuddering breath, Horrificator managed to look up at Appétit's face for a moment. “My…boyfriend went missing earlier this year,” she said. “I, um…I went kind of crazy about it. I was always out looking for him, like he was just going to show up at one of our usual spots like nothing had happened. Or, or like, like in a city of two million people I’d find the _one_ back alley where they’d dumped his body. It was really stupid.” Her claws tangled with each other as she continued. “So, um, eventually the police stopped looking for him. I went to see the detective in charge of his case, to…ask him why.”

“What’d he say?” Jean asked, eyes wide. His expression of shock matched Marinette’s – a missing boyfriend was a heavier turn than she’d been expecting the story to take, frankly.

Horrificator gave a miserable sound that could perhaps be called a laugh. “Said he probably ran away from home. Told me that right before he disappeared his doctor had lodged a complaint with child welfare services about his parents. So naturally I run right over there to, I dunno, confront his parents or whatever, and the cops were waiting for me.”

“Wait, back up. Why were the cops waiting for you?” Appétit asked, holding a hand up.

“I…went to see the detective like this,” Horrificator said, sheepishly tugging at her hair-tentacles.

“And he let you in the front door all purpled up?” Appétit asked, clearly surprised.

“Nnnnot exactly?” Horrificator said. “I, um. I might have had the idea that he’d had something to do with Iv- um, with my boyfriend’s disappearance when I went over there.”

“How bad did you rough him up?” Appétit said, his grin only widening as he teased more of the story out.

“I didn’t–!” Horrificator began to protest. “I just scared him! I wouldn’t have actually done anything!”

“So you broke into a cop’s house and threatened him, and you were gonna do the same to your boyfriends’ dirtbag parents?” Appétit asked, with something approaching glee in his voice. Horrificator’s face was flushing an unhealthy-looking orange. Her mouth opened and closed, but she couldn’t muster up a protest. Marinette was shocked.

“That’s not okay,” she said, the words flying from her mouth without her meaning to say them. “That…that was a _crime_ , Horrificator.”

The bigger akuma looked like she might cry. “I know,” she said, in a tiny voice. “I just…it was stupid, and then things got so out of control, and…”

Appétit snorted, loudly and emphatically. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Dots.”

“ _I’m_ a hypocrite?” Marinette said angrily.

“You put two cops in the hospital!”

“That was _self-defense!_ ”

Appétit waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, I’m just saying.”

“Dude, you can’t just call someone a hypocrite and then say you’re not trying to pick a fight,” Jean cut in, frowning. “That’s a dick move and you know it.”

“It is not a dick move!” Appétit protested. He turned to Nour, switching to Arabic. “ _Nour, back me up here. Calling someone a hypocrite isn’t automatically the same as trying to pick a fight with them, right?_ ”

Nour gave an uncharitable laugh. _“The snake-clown kid’s right, Big Mouth. You’re being an ass,”_ she said.

Marinette stood up quickly, bumping the table. Her skin felt hot, and too tight all over. “You know, it’s awfully late,” she said. “I’ve gotta head home. Hope you all enjoyed the pastries.” She began walking quickly towards the door. A ragged chorus of thanks and good-nights came from Jean and Ramier. She did not turn to see if Horrificator was following her.

* * *

Marinette paced furiously back and forth in the empty kitchen of the bakery, arms wrapped around herself. She felt… _betrayed_ , was the only word for it. Sure, what Horrificator had done wasn’t _so_ inexcusable; Marinette didn’t know what she would have done if she thought someone had hurt her parents or, saints forbid, _Adrien_ …

Still, they couldn’t afford _any_ level of inexcusable in their actions, right now. Horrificator was exactly what the news had accused the akuma of being; a superpowered criminal, a menace to public security. With that kind of power, even the most trivial of offenses suddenly became hugely dangerous; it was one thing to run from the police when the worst you could do was knock over a trash can, and quite another when you could knock over buildings. And it brought up the worries that she thought she’d managed to bury, about whether or not her transformation had warped her perspective, exerting some malign and corrupting influence on her that predisposed her to violence, or selfishness, or self-righteousness. All of her ideas about using Alya’s blog to get their story out there, to show the public that the akuma were just ordinary people like anyone else, now seemed foolish, disastrous. She shuddered to think of what would come out of Don Appétit's mouths if they put him in front of a microphone.

She stuffed the neckline of her hoodie into her mouth and gave a muffled scream of frustration around the mouthful of fabric. This was _so inconvenient!!_ This was the _last_ thing that she needed to be happening right now! This was a PR disaster, this could really hurt the cause!

 _And just when did I start thinking of this as a ‘cause’?_ , she wondered, her pacing abruptly halting. _I’m not on some kind of mission, I just want to get through this and get my normal life back…_

 _Aw, come on, Bug. You know that’s not true,_ said a part of her mind that sounded an awful lot like Chat Noir. _You gotta stand up for the little guy. Even if people aren’t perfect, even if they’re downright bad, you can’t just stand by and let them get stepped on. You’ve never been able to just let that stuff slide._

 _And how the hell do you know what I’ve never been able to do, Chat?_ _You’ve only known me for a few weeks_ , she snapped back at her own mind with a huff.

Still, for a figment of her imagination, he had a point. Marinette let out a deep, shuddering breath. With the anger gone, all that was left was an aching sort of hollowness, and more than a little fear.

She’d figure this out in the morning. For now, she needed some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That relatable feel when u sublimate ur intense gay feelings for another girl into unrelenting hostility. #thanksclimatika
> 
> Also, that feel when u started including "hashtag Illuminati, hashtag 666" as a dumb running gag, but then u realize that the overarching plot of the fic is legit just "Miraculous Ladybug: Illuminati vs. 666"
> 
> Wikipedia tells me that _zaema_ (زعمة) is a filler word roughly equivalent to "like" in Moroccan Arabic, in case anyone was wondering. And, hey, if any of you know anything about L2 French acquisition by L1 Arabic speakers, hmu.
> 
> Anyway, I'd like to thank everyone who's been reading for sticking with me; I think if I work diligently I can get two more updates out this week (one on Wednesday and one on Friday), so that will be my treat to you all. Going forwards, however, I'm contemplating moving to an every-other-week update schedule because of job and personal life stuff, so stay tuned re. that.
> 
> Up next time: Alya deals with a literal and a figurative headache! And also some pretty heavy shit goes down.


	7. Crackdown, Pt. 2 - Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: the Paris Police get their marching orders from the anti-akuma task force, and the situation escalates dramatically; Alya has a headache, for which Nino is only partly responsible; Ladybug and Chat Noir use a very particular ride-sharing service; Marinette tries out a new aesthetic, by accident; and then the situation escalates _even further_.
> 
> Emphatic content warning for police violence, and content warning for death.

“So are you here for the taskforce?”, the other man asked once the elevator doors had closed. “I assume so, since the alternative is you’ve been following me since the parking deck.”

Roger gave a sheepish chuckle. “The former, don’t worry,” he said. “Roger Raincomprix.” He held out his hand for a shake.

“Durand, Martin Durand,” the other man said, taking it. He smiled through salt-and-pepper scruff. “I’m the plainclothes liaison for the 21st arrondissement.”

“And I’m the uniformed liaison, which you probably knew,” Roger said.

“With the promotion to match, no less,” Durand said, with a nod at the second white bar that now adorned Roger’s rank patch – he was a full lieutenant, now.

Roger nodded, unable to keep his chest from puffing out with pride. “Sarah was thrilled,” he said. In actual fact, _Roger_ had been thrilled, while his wife Sarah had been merely happy for him. Stagnating on the job ladder for years and on the wrong side of 40, the fear that this was the most he was ever going to achieve in life had taunted him, in his darker nights. On some level, of course, he knew that he was the one who was really excited, and that Sarah loved him and was proud of him regardless of his rank, but the whole issue was too tangled up with his challenged masculinity, his need to be and to think of himself as a provider for his family, and as many of the other neuroses of middle-aged men as one cared to name. So – Sarah was thrilled, and Roger had humbly accepted the honor and was not smug in the least, and all the polite fictions were maintained. Things were looking up for Roger Raincomprix. The task force assignment would be a real feather in his cap, he hoped, and lead to bigger things down the road.

The elevator dinged open, and the two men emerged into chaos. Phones rang, people hurried to and fro across the room, stacks of papers towered perilously on the edges of desks. On the far wall of the room hung a large poster with the insignia of the task force on it – concentric circles inside a ragged oblong. Perhaps intended to represent a stylized flame, it was reminiscent of tokens against the evil eye – a hamsa or nazar. Its dispassionate gaze oversaw the frenzy that played out below it.

Durand caught a passer-by by the elbow, nearly jerking a stack of binders out of his hands. “Hey,” he said. “We’re looking for Jacques? We’re the delegation from the 21st arrondissement.”

The man indicated an unmarked door towards the rear of the room, then deftly shrugged off the detective’s grip and continued on his way. Durand looked at Roger, and shrugged.

“Busy morning,” Roger observed as they made their way through the crowd. He tugged the door open, and followed the older officer through. When it closed behind them, the din of the main office vanished in an instant. Before them stretched a carpeted corridor lined with closed doors. There was no one else in sight.

One of the doors opened, and Jacques emerged, still wearing sunglasses and a scowl. “You two are late,” he said as he walked towards them. “Better get a move on. Here.” In his outstretched hand, he offered them a slim manila folder bearing the task force insignia.

Durand just looked at it, and then back up at Jacques. Roger took the folder, opening it. Inside was only a single sheet of paper. “What’s this?” he asked, reading it.

“What does it look like?” Jacques said. “It’s a list of names.”

“And what do we do with this list of names?” Durand asked, peering around Roger’s shoulder at said list.

“You _bring them in_ ,” Jacques said, as though he was explaining something very simple to a pair of children.

Roger frowned as he looked at the list. There were maybe twenty names, accompanied by INSEE numbers. No pictures, no addresses. No title or identifying information on the document. “What are the charges?” he asked, with a sinking sensation that he already knew the answer.

With a long-suffering sigh, Jacques closed the folder over his hand and tapped the logo on the front with his index finger. “Use your imagination, Raincomprix. Or don’t. That’s probably better for all concerned.” He turned and walked back into his office. The door slammed behind him.

 

* * *

 

Someone was yelling as Marinette left the bakery. It had an edge to it – of danger, or of real fear – that caught her attention. A crowd had gathered around the door to one of the row houses further down from hers. As she moved closer, a uniformed police officer emerged from the open front door, bodily dragging a man behind him. It was the man who was yelling, and frantically thrashing in the officer’s grip, his arms zip-tied in front of him. The reason for his arrest quickly became apparent; as the cop dragged him down the steps, his legs did not immediately emerge from the door after him; instead, what emerged was more torso, and another officer struggling to keep a hold around the man’s wildly squirming midsection. In all, it took four police officers to carry the man out of his home, half-a-dozen pairs of arms zip-tied along the length of his centipede-like form. The whole time, the man yelled, protested his innocence, begged for help from those standing nearby. As they awkwardly shoved him into the back of a police van, folding his elongated body like a stubborn roll of carpet, he began to wail.

Marinette was as still as a statue. It felt like all of her blood had been replaced with ice water. Her eyes were wide, her knuckles white as she clutched the strap of her backpack. She had to do something. She couldn’t do something. As soon as the van doors closed, there was no guarantee that anyone would ever see this man alive again. They were less than a dozen meters from her front door. If she’d helped the akuma at the supermarket, how could she justify standing by now? But it was broad daylight, and she wasn’t in costume, and of the crowd of her neighbours who’d assembled one of them would surely recognize her, or catch her on film. She didn’t know what to do. She felt like she was going to be sick.

When the police van drove away, she had to put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not just here, it’s all over the city,” Alya said, leaning against the door of the bathroom stall, her phone held inches from her face. Her eyes were wide, and she felt like she might shake herself to pieces she was so full of energy. She was trying so very, very hard to not be having fun right now. This was – _unjust, absurd, awful_ – seriously upsetting Marinette, and she didn’t need Alya’s difficulties with having normal human reactions to things on top of that.

But fresh hell, what a _story_.

“There’s a trending hashtag and everything,” Alya continued. “Tons of videos, but they’re taking most of them down.”

“Alya, I changed my mind, I want you to stop talking about it,” Marinette said weakly from inside the stall, her breathing ragged.

Alya closed her mouth. “Hon, do you need me to come in there?” she asked softly after a moment.

“I think if anyone touches me for the rest of the day I might scream,” Marinette said. She gently thumped her head against the inside of the door, the vibration travelling through Alya’s shoulders. “Thanks, though. Sorry to make you babysit me.”

“Anytime, girl,” Alya said. “I’m here for you.”

A tapping noise drew her attention downwards. Marinette’s hand peeked out from under the stall door. She opened and closed her fingers beckoningly. Sinking down, Alya entwined her fingers with Marinette’s, giving her friend’s hand a comforting squeeze. They stayed like that for a moment before Marinette spoke. “Okay,” she said with a deep breath. “I think I can go back to class now.”

 

* * *

 

“ _…have already made nearly fifty arrests across the greater Paris area of suspected or confirmed akuma. The Prefect of Police has declined to comment at this time on the still-ongoing operation. Street protests have already begun in many neighbourhoods, with Parisians being alarmed by the suddenness and lack of transparency of the National Police’s actions…_ ”

“Hey, Alya?”

Nadja Chamack’s voice continued to sound from Alya’s earbud as she tugged it from her ear, looking up from her phone at the sound of Nino’s voice. “What’s up?” she asked, not slowing in her walk away from school towards home.

“Is, um, is everything okay with Marinette?” Nino asked as he kept pace with her, earnest concern writ plainly across his features. “She seemed pretty shook up earlier…” Alya felt a surge of affection for the gangly boy, which she quickly rationalized as being entirely due to his concern for her bestie.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said. “You know she lives right across from the school; that akuma that got arrested was right down the street from her house, she saw it happen. Like you said, it shook her up pretty badly. She’s a tough cookie, though.” Alya elbowed Nino in the side with an encouraging grin. “I’m still gonna worry about her because I’m her best friend, but you don’t have to. She’ll be fine.”

“Oh, alright. Good,” Nino said with a relieved smile. “That’s good. Uh, like, tell her to let me know if she needs anything?” He made cautious finger-guns at her.

Alya snorted. “Tell her yourself, lover boy,” she said.

Nino visibly froze at the words ‘lover boy,’ eyes widening. Was that…was he _blushing_? “L- uh, lover boy?” he said, hurrying to catch up with her. “Why do you, what, what do you mean?”

Oh God. Why had she said that? Why did she open her stupid, flirty mouth? She’d made it weird. Mission compromised, abort, abort. Internally panicking, Alya decided to default to a time-honored strategy and play dumb.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she said, doing her best to be wide-eyed and innocent but not _so_ wide-eyed and innocent that she was, y’know, being _obviously wide-eyed and innocent_.

“Why’d you call me lover boy just now?” Nino said. Yeah, he was _definitely_ blushing. Oh God. Alya’s heart was pounding; she was sure her own cheeks were heating up as well.

“Oh, uh, no reason,” she said with a shrug. “Sorry if that wasn’t cool.”

“No, I mean, it’s chill, you’re chill,” Nino said. “I just, uh, I don’t want you to think that I’m, like, trying to put the _moves_ on Marinette or whatever.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly – wistfully, maybe? – his cheeks still a little pink. “That’d be a major creeper move if she’s not in a good place right now.”

_Oh_. Her heart dropped out of its double-time beat in an instant, an experience about as comfortable as being in the passenger’s seat of a car that had just slammed on its brakes. “Never even crossed my mind,” she said, with complete honesty. A sudden mix of strong emotions rose in Alya that she didn’t have a name for, and didn’t want to think about very much. She had no reason to be angry at Nino, and she was _not_ angry at _Marinette_ , who was her _best friend_ , and it would have been an egregious violation of the Sis Code to be angry at Marinette about the possibility that Nino might be interested in her _if Alya were even interested in Nino in that way, which she wasn’t!!_ She pulled her phone back out of her pocket and resumed scrolling through her news feed, her steps unconsciously quickening.

“Today’s pretty wild, huh, with all the arrests and stuff,” Nino said, gamely doing his best to keep up with her.

“Yup, pretty wild,” Alya said, not looking up from her phone.

“How’s the blog coming? Got any ideas about where you’re gonna find an akuma to interview?”

“Nope,” Alya said curtly. _Damn it, I’m snapping at him_ , she realized. That wasn’t fair of her. But she wasn’t sure how to stop herself from doing it, honestly, so she just kept her mouth shut and continued avoiding eye contact. As she walked, a pressure began to mount behind her forehead. A corona of indescribable colors bloomed around her phone. Great – another migraine. The last thing she needed right now. She marched onwards, steadfastly determined to ignore it. The not-rainbow began to leak in from the edges of her vision as well. A sudden bolt of light shot across her sight, mirrored by a burst of splitting pain in her head. Her stride faltered, her hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose as she made a small noise of discomfort.

“Whoah, dude, you okay?” Nino said, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. Alya hated the concern in his voice at that moment, and hated that she hated it.

“I’m fine,” she said – she did _not_ growl it, thank you very much – and shrugged his hand off. “Don’t worry about it.” She almost couldn’t hear her own words, though, because the silent sound had begun to fill her ears again, like every television channel in the world playing simultaneously. She walked onwards, furiously, drowning in a sea of white noise and blinded by an infinity of purple.

Suddenly, there was a sharp jerk around her midsection. Alya stumbled backwards, falling against something solid and warm. She blinked, the blooms of black light fading from her vision enough to reveal Nino’s concerned face looking down at her from beneath the brim of his red cap.

“-lya. Alya!” she heard him saying, finally, as the noise slipped into the background. “Holy shit, dude, what’s the matter with you? Did you not hear me?” His eyes were wide, panicky; there was anger in his voice, but something else too. She realized that his arms were what was wrapped around her. She felt heat rising in her face at their closeness.

“Wh-what?” she said shakily, still staring into his golden eyes.

“Uh, hello, Earth to Alya?” Nino said, waving a hand in front of her eyes. “You almost walked into _traffic_ , dude!!”

Alya finally noticed the busy city street she’d been about to walk into; a bus barreled by, leaving a cloud of sour exhaust in its wake. _Holy shit_ , she thought, the bottom dropping out of her stomach. “Holy shit,” she said, weakly, this time out loud. Her legs felt very unsteady all of a sudden. “Nino, I need to sit down,” she said quickly. With no hesitation, Nino guided her to the front steps of the building they were passing in front of and sat her down, crouching in front of her.

“Alya, seriously, are you okay?” he said intently, his eyes serious behind his thick-framed glasses. Alya fidgeted, looking away from his gaze.

“I couldn’t hear what you were saying,” she admitted. “I didn’t hear a thing, I could barely see. It’s a migraine, I think; I’ve been having a lot of them lately.”

“Aw, jeez, dude, I didn’t mean to be pestering you this whole walk when you weren’t feeling well!” Nino said, face falling. “I’m sorry!”

“Nino, if you hadn’t been pestering me I’d be a skid mark on the pavement,” Alya pointed out dryly. She winced as another wave of colors rolled across her vision. “Ugh. I owe you one, you dork. Apologizing after you save my life…”

Nino scratched at his head under the cap, sheepishly. “Are you okay to get home?” he asked. “I can walk you the rest of the way if you need.”

“You’re not remotely in the same direction as me,” Alya said, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, I’m just gonna sit for a minute.”

“Alright, but I’m gonna wait with you,” he said, crossing his arms insistently.

Alya huffed. This sort of caring behavior from Nino was what had caused this whole stupid situation in the first place…but still, she was powerless to resist it. “Fine,” she said, scooting over and patting the ground next to her on the stoop. Nino took a seat beside her. They sat in silence for a moment. Nino took his hat off and turned it over in his hands. Alya resisted the urge to smooth his hair down where it was sticking up at the back.

 

* * *

 

_Alya, I’m an akuma_.

The words were on the tip of Nino’s tongue. He felt like his cheeks should be bulging like a chipmunk’s with the effort of keeping them in. He fidgeted with his hat, the December air cold against his scalp. Alya leaned against the wall, her brow still creased with discomfort. She made a small, unhappy noise as she shifted to get comfortable.

He wanted to tell her, and he wasn’t even sure _why_. It was a bad idea, by any reasonable metric. The saying went that three could keep a secret if two of them were dead, and Nino felt like that probably held true for two-person secrets as well.

Something Nino had realized, in the time since that first afternoon that he’d thrown up in the bathroom, was that there were two kinds of secrets. The fun kind, the kind that gave you some kind of edge – like which vending machines could be easily jostled to yield free food, or a shortcut that saved a lot of time on the way to school – and the not-fun kind. The not-fun kind were the ones that you _had_ to keep, because of what they could destroy if you let them loose. Happiness, relationships, reputations, careers. Lives.

“You look like you want to say something,” Alya said, looking at him over the top of her glasses.

Nino forced himself to shrug, rather than to laugh or cry. “Not really,” he said. The silence stretched between them, a little more awkward now. “Think you’re gonna go to any of the protests tonight?” he asked, sitting his cap back on his head.

Alya shrugged. “If I’m feeling better, and don’t have to watch my sisters. Hopefully I’ll get some decent footage for the blog.” She sighed irritably. “It’s a pain in the ass, though, ‘cause you want to show your viewers the exciting stuff but you don’t want to give the cops anything they could use to track anyone down. How about you?”

_Oh, I would, but it’s a school night and I’ve got homework and also if I go I might get caught up in a mass arrest and somehow found out as an akuma and then get SUPER-arrested!_ Nino responded, internally. What he said, instead, was a slightly strangled “I don’t think my mom would let me.”

Alya snorted a little at that.

“It’s super-lame, I know,” Nino said. “I’m fake woke. Revoke my coolkid status. Nino Lahiffe has to ask his mom for permission to go stick it to The Man.”

Alya shrugged with a small smile. “Your secret’s safe with me, coolkid.”

Nino could practically choke on the irony.

“Hey,” he began, without thinking about it, and then realized that he wasn’t sure what he’d had planned for the rest of that sentence. The first option that leapt to mind was, as he’d already concluded, disastrous and nonviable. Ergo, he had to come up with something, and quick. “Uh…Adrien and I were gonna eat out for lunch tomorrow. You wanna come along? You could bring Marinette too. We could help you brainstorm about how to score that interview or something.”

“Oh, right, tomorrow is one of his cheat days, isn’t it,” Alya said thoughtfully. At Nino’s surprised expression, she pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t ask how I know that. But yeah, that sounds good.” A mischievous grin crossed her face, but was almost immediately squashed by a confusing sequence of micro-expressions that Nino wasn’t sure how to interpret. Alya stood up, cracking her neck with a groan. “Alright, I think I’m good to go the rest of the way. See you tomorrow, Nino.”

Nino waved for a moment at Alya’s turned back as she walked away, before feeling silly and dropping his hand. He fished his phone out and shot a quick text at Adrien. His best bro would probably appreciate being informed that they were getting lunch tomorrow, let alone that they would have company.

 

* * *

 

_Guess who’s going out to lunch with Adrien tomorrow_ , read Alya’s text. Marinette’s eyes widened in panic. Was it someone famous? Had Adrien been swept off his feet by one of the beautiful, cosmopolitan supermodels that he no doubt spent all his free time hanging out with? Had Marinette been condemned to a life of loneliness by the cruel whims of fate?

Her panic, if anything, intensified when Alya’s next text read simply: _it’s u_

_WHAT?!_

_im the best friend ever. you’re welcome._

_Alya, what did you do?!?!_

_lol relax gurl, nino invited us. its gonna be u me him & Hot Stuff. real casual like. no need to freak out. but regardless I am the queen of #maneuvers_

Lunch. With Adrien. Just a casual, hanging out, friends being pals, normal, ordinary, confess-your-undying-love-over-a-milkshake afternoon…

Marinette buried her face in her pillow and shrieked, kicking her legs for glee.

Her phone buzzed again. A giddy smile on her face, she reached for it to see what Alya had to say next.

_HM: We’re going to be welcoming a number of new guests tonight. I hope you can lend us your assistance._

Oh. Well. That wasn’t Alya. Marinette tapped out a quick reply. _LB: What precisely does ‘assistance’ entail here?_

_I don’t anticipate there will be any violence, if that’s what you’re asking_ , Hawk Moth responded. _Speed and secrecy are really our only options; we do not exactly occupy an advantageous position, yet._

Marinette considered it for a moment. It made sense that after today’s events, anyone who’d been on the fence about accepting Hawk Moth’s hospitality would have stopped hesitating. She could probably tell her parents that she was going to bed early, and sneak out via the roof. _I can be ready in half an hour_ , she texted back. _When & where?_

The conversation was interrupted by another text from Alya. _Marinette did I break you??_

Before Marinette could recapture enough of the uncomplicated excitement of getting lunch with her crush to formulate a suitably grateful response, she received yet another message.

_CN: You going on Hawk Moth’s mission tonight?_ Night-vision-goggles emoji, burglar emoji, thumbs-up emoji.

“Ughhhhh,” Marinette whined, stuffing her face back into her pillow. There was a lot happening right now.

 

* * *

 

The door of the van slammed open with a metallic rasp. Quick as a wink, Chat Noir was inside. “ _Salut_ , my lady,” he said with a flirtatious wink at her.

“ _Bonsoir_ , Chat Noir,” Marinette said dryly. She tossed a nod at the alleyway he’d emerged from. “Catching up with your fellow strays?”

“I’m really more of a house cat,” the boy countered. “Always on the lookout for an independent, career-minded woman who’ll shower me with love and attention while I lounge around her apartment all day looking relaxed and elegant and destroying the upholstery on her furniture.”

Marinette snorted with laughter at that. Before she could respond, Don Appétit chimed in from the drivers’ seat. “Hey, teenage romcoms, close the fucking door and buckle up. We’re on the clock.”

With his usual good humor, Chat did so, taking the seat next to Marinette. “So what’s on the agenda tonight? Hawk Moth didn’t specify,” he asked as they pulled away. Marinette rolled her eyes. Of _course_ he’d just volunteered to help without asking for details. “Also, hello, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Chat Noir.” The last was directed at the other occupant of the van, a nervous-looking woman with two bulging travel bags at her feet and a baby carrier in her lap.

“M-marie,” she said nervously, taking his hand to shake after only a moment’s hesitation at the wicked claws. Chat Noir gave her a dazzling, albeit alarmingly pointy, smile. _His smile really does light up the room_ , Marinette thought. _Though it obviously can’t hold a candle to Adrien’s_ …

“Oh, didn’t you hear? We’re running a ridesharing service now,” Don Appétit said. “For a very reasonable fee, you can get chauffeured around Paris by our hand-picked team of freaks and creeps. Download our app on any smart phone or web-capable device!”

“We’re moving more akumas into the safehouses,” Marinette explained, her arm pressing against Chat Noir’s as she leaned closer to explain.

 

* * *

 

Adrien gulped as a stray strand of Ladybug’s hair tickled at his neck, her big blue eyes looking up at him from within the red-and-black of her mask. “People are nervous with all the arrests today,” she continued, apparently not noticing his…distress? No, whatever he was feeling right now was definitely not distress, because distress would imply that he wanted her to stop doing what she was doing. He absolutely did not want her to stop doing what she was doing. “So Hawk Moth’s helping them drop off the grid. We’re in a hurry because we have no way of knowing whether the cops are coming for any of them. Other than that tip line the police set up, we're not sure how they're tracking these people down, even.”

Adrien nodded. “Makes sense,” he said, his voice sounding way more level and confident than he’d expected it to. “So, wait, why’d Hawk Moth ask me along? I don’t wanna blow our cover or anything.” He held up a furred arm to illustrate his concern.

“A lot of ‘em are gonna be just as obviously not human as you are,” Appétit called from the front seat, spinning the front wheel as he took the van into an alarmingly sharp turn around a corner. “So we’re blown if anyone sees us anyway.”

Adrien frowned. That still seemed pretty risky, but he didn’t want to seem like he was bailing on a promise to help out. Oh well. He’d just have to be that much stealthier.

 

* * *

 

A cocky grin spread across Chat Noir’s face as he resolved some internal chain of thought, and Marinette hid a smile of her own behind her hand. This boy was an open book, really. “So how many stops are we making?” she asked.

“Dunno. We’re getting the addresses one at a time,” Appétit said.

_It would be suboptimal if the police were to discover our full itinerary in the event of your capture,_ came Hawk Moth’s mind-voice. Marinette noticed the moths perched on the dashboard for the first time, nearly invisible in the van’s dark interior. _That said, do try not to get captured._

“Duly noted,” she and Chat Noir said in unison, her tone snarky and his matter-of-fact. They glanced at each other, surprised. Chat Noir recovered first and gave her a grin that was far too smug to be acceptable, waggling his eyebrows. Marinette pointedly refrained from comment.

The van hit a pothole, jostling the passengers. A plaintive cry arose from the carrier in Marie’s lap, and she bent over it too coo soothingly. A dark appendage emerged from it to brush against her face, and after a moment the infant’s cries subsided.

_Was than an –_ Marinette began to think, before Chat Noir spoke. “Was than an _antenna?_ ” he asked, sounding fascinated.

Marie flinched. “It, uh…yes,” she said, as though she was ashamed of it.

“So you’re not the akuma,” Marinette said, understanding dawning.

“No,” Marie confirmed. “It’s…that’s my daughter.”

“Can we see her?” Marinette asked, a little more gently. Marie chewed her lip for a moment, then shifted the baby carrier in her lap so that they could look inside. Marinette leaned closer, Chat Noir peering over her shoulder. In the crib, swaddled in blankets, slept an infant girl who couldn’t have been more than a few months old. A pair of insectoid antenna sprouted from her forehead, twitching diffidently as she slept. Her mouth was partially obscured by a pair of bristle-covered maxilla, their carapace jarringly un-mammalian against the pink of her face.

“Was she born like that?” Chat asked.

“No, she, um…those happened later,” Marie said. “I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t take her to the doctor right away.” She gave a short, bleak laugh, and reached into the carrier to gently stroke her daughter’s cheek, taking care not to touch the insect bits.

“Huh,” Marinette said thoughtfully. She definitely hadn’t expected children less than a year old to start displaying mutations – and the fact that the child hadn’t been born with them was interesting, too. “What’s her name?”

“Miriam, after her grandmother.”

“Don’t you worry, Grasshopper Girl,” Chat Noir said, addressing the baby. “We’re gonna make sure your superhero origin story is _claw_ -some.”

“One step at a time, Chat,” Marinette said with an amused smile, leaning back in her seat.

The van came to a stop. “Are we there?” Chat asked, ears swiveling forward.

“Nah,” Appétit said. “Protest’s blocking the road.”

Unbuckling their seat belts, Chat and Marinette climbed forwards to peer over the front seats. It was quite a crowd; signs, the sound of chanting audible from within the van, the whole package. The three akuma watched the protestors pass for a moment, a river of people lit in dull orange by the streetlights.

“Alright, I refuse to submit to the dramatic irony of our mission being held up by people who are nominally on our side,” Appétit said abruptly, putting the van in reverse. “Buckle back up and let’s get going.”

 

* * *

 

“Rough night, dear?” Sabine asked, amused, as Marinette staggered downstairs. Marinette could only manage a wordless grumble in response, pressing a good-morning kiss to her mother’s cheek. They’d been out past three in the morning last night; nine akuma in all, and the unmarked white van bursting at the seams by the end of it. Her eyes felt gummed shut, her limbs heavy from lack of sleep. She fumbled in the fridge for the milk, attempting to extricate it from between a head of cabbage and several stacked containers of leftovers. In doing so, she dislodged the cabbage, which tipped over a tower of yogurt cups, which in turn fell from the shelf to scatter across the floor.

Marinette groaned again and thumped her head against refrigerator. The morning was off to a great start so far; at least she had lunch with Adrien to look forward…to…

_I’m getting lunch with Adrien!!_ she realized, bolting upright in panic. _I’m getting lunch with Adrien and I look like a nightmare!!!_

“Uhhhh, you know what I just realized that I’m not really hungry!! Gotta go get ready bye!!” she blurted, scooping up the yogurt cups and cramming them haphazardly back into the fridge.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, girl, what’s with the – whoah!” Alya asked Marinette as she sat down after handing Mme. Bustier her late note – she’d missed first period. “Good morning, alternate-universe Marinette from Hot Topic World!”

Marinette buried her face in her hands and whined plaintively.

“No, seriously, girl, are you okay? You’re not wearing a single item of pink or floral-print clothing,” Alya continued, seeming genuinely – and rightly – concerned. Marinette’s hair was out of its usual pigtails, peeking from below the edges of a black knit cap. Her eyes were ringed in clumsy circles of eyeshadow and mascara. She wore the same dark hoodie she’d worn out as Ladybug last night over a paint-splattered Jagged Stone shirt that she ordinarily used as pajamas. The effect was, as Alya had said, somewhat mall-goth. Alix and Juleka had both already complimented Marinette on her outfit that morning, an event that Alya had missed but Marinette had, obviously, been _excruciatingly_ present for.

“Don’t look at me, please, this is mortifying,” Marinette said. “You absolutely cannot take me to lunch with Adrien today. I will _die_. My outfit is _horrifying_ , my makeup is a _disaster_ , my hair is greasy because I didn’t have time to _shower_ …” She gripped Alya by the arms. “If he walks into this classroom, it is your duty as my best friend to kill me dead where I stand.”

“Marinette, do you really want Adrien’s last memory of you to be you dead on the floor of the classroom looking like a refugee from the early 2000s?” Alya asked, amused. Marinette’s eyes widened in panic and Alya could tell that an elaborate fantasy vision of that scenario was playing out in her head. “Anyway, you are categorically not allowed to bail on me, because reasons. Reasons including, but not limited to, ‘you still look super-cute,’ ‘Adrien won’t care,’ ‘this could be your big chance to have an actual conversation with him,’ and ‘because I’m the boss and I said so.’” Alya counted these reasons off on her fingers with a grin that booked no opposition.

Marinette’s face went very pale, and she smacked Alya’s arm repeatedly, looking at something behind her. “ _He just walked in!_ ” she whispered frantically.

“Mornin’, Nino,” Adrien said with a yawn. “Morning Alya, morning Marinette.” Alya turned in time to see Adrien do a double-take at Marinette, who appeared to be doing her level best to spontaneously develop powers of invisibility. His brow quirked thoughtfully, and he inspected her for a moment. Alya could see Marinette’s tension visibly ratcheting up the longer the silence lasted.

At last, Adrien spoke. “That’s a cute outfit. Kind of different from your usual vibe. You pull off the tomboyish look really well.” Apparently considering this a complete exchange, he turned back to Nino and began chatting with the boy. Alya could see the exact moment when Marinette decided that Adrien wasn’t being sarcastic or mocking her, as a deep red flush rose straight from her collarbones to her hairline.

 

* * *

 

" _…the second day of the Paris Prefecture of Police’s crackdown on akuma activity in the capital. Protests have continued alongside the detentions, without violence thus far although many arrondissements have been allocated additional police presence to deter opportunistic crime or looting and, critics accuse, to intimidate would-be protestors. A statement by the Prefect of Police earlier this morning has received substantial pushback on social media and from activist groups, who say that rather than an attempt to regain public trust after the recent high-profile akuma attacks in Paris, this crackdown is a naked show of force by the police.”_

The news droned in the background as four teens sat in a café booth. Alya’s gaze was riveted on the screen as she slurped her drink through its straw. Nino was trying not to stare too obviously at Marinette, which meant he failed to notice that she was trying not to stare too obviously at Adrien. Adrien, in turn, was gazing interestedly at the lunchtime crowd with the uncomplicated curiosity of a homeschooled kid who’d had exactly one friend his own age up until less than a year ago.

“I wonder how long it’s going to be until someone gets killed,” Alya said, apropos of nothing. The other three looked at her, startled. “Sorry, that came out pretty morbid,” Alya said with a sheepish flap of her hand. “I mean with all these arrests.”

“Alya, that explanation doesn’t make it any less morbid,” Nino said dryly. The question made him a little sick to his stomach, though. He’d been wondering the same thing, of course. Still, the blithe, almost clinical way Alya had asked the question sort of rubbed him the wrong way. It was like, did she even think that it might not _just_ be a thought exercise for some people?

“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Adrien said confidently, at the same time that Marinette darkly said “I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already.” They looked at each other, surprised, and momentarily locked gazes. Marinette’s cheeks colored, eyes widening in panic. Adrien just looked surprised – not quite _hurt_ , but maybe with a little bit of a lip-quirk that suggested he hadn’t expected to be flat-out contradicted.

“What makes you say that, Marinette?” he asked, his tone not even remotely accusatory. He sounded like he was genuinely worried that there was some sort of flaw in his reasoning.

“I, um, ah, I mean…” Marinette said, eyes darting frantically everywhere but Adrien’s face. “They’re just taking so many people in, and if they all have _some_ kind of superpower, it’s just a numbers question, right? Just statistics.”

Adrien frowned. She had a point. And if how Ladybug told the story of her clash with the police at the shopping center held true, then every interaction with law enforcement, however minor, carried the very real possibility of things spiraling out of control. Still, the thought of the fierce-spirited akuma girl _killing_ someone – or the bug-mouthed baby girl from last night – or of _himself_ , black fire stripping flesh from the bone in a heartbeat beneath his hand…no, he rejected those thoughts out of hand. “I don’t think it’s fair to assume that the akuma would be willing to just do something like that,” he said. “I mean, isn’t that how we got into this situation in the first place? Besides, I’m sure the police wouldn’t deliberately escalate things like that.”

Marinette was cutting her pastry into tiny shreds with the edge of her fork, face bright red. “Y-yeah. I guess you’re right. I’m being dumb.”

Alya forcibly tamped down a moment of rage that Marinette was stuffing herself into a box for a _boy_ , of all things. “Adrien, your silver spoon is showing,” she said bluntly, reaching over to give Marinette’s hand a comforting squeeze. “Why don’t you tell your black, Arab, and half-Chinese friends a little more about how the police are their friends?”

Adrien blanched at that, guilt spreading across his face. Nino chimed in. “Yeah, bro, I’m kind of with Marinette on this one. _Les flics_ ’ trigger fingers get itchy enough dealing with regular human beings. Someone’s gonna freak out sooner or later.”

“Plus, like, even if it’s a cop rather than an akuma that gets killed, you’re calling the akuma criminals for standing up for their liberty against the agents of a state that’s enforcing a fundamentally unjust policy!” Alya continued. “Now who’s the one _really_ giving in to the other side’s framing of the situation, huh, mister?”

“Yeah, no, I, uh,” Adrien stammered, raising his hands defensively. He sagged, looking out the window. “You guys are right. I guess I just wanted to hope it wouldn’t come to that.”

Nino’s annoyance at Adrien’s thoughtlessly privileged worldview was punctured, as it so often was, by how plaintive and lost the boy seemed sometimes. _He is **darn** lucky he’s cute_ , Nino thought.

Alya huffed. “It’s not like I’m excited about the prospect either, Adrien,” she said. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, gripping it in her hand as she spoke. Nino had noticed that she did that when she was feeling antsy about something, holding onto the device like it was a safety blanket. He wondered if she knew she did it. A little bit of his earlier resentment of her tone faded at her quiet, easy-to-miss show of real concern.

The group passed a few moments in thoughtful silence. Adrien twirled his coffee’s stir-stick between his fingers in a graceful moebius strip, chin buried in his hand. Alya, with glances at both Marinette and Nino, thought that they both looked like they wanted to say something, but weren’t sure how to get it out. _God, I hope this situation doesn’t get any **more** punishingly awkward,_ she thought darkly.

“So what’s everyone doing this weekend?” Nino asked.

Adrien perked up at the chance to shift to a low-stakes conversation. “I’ve got a–” he began.

“A fencing tournament, right? It starts Saturday at 8:00, and you’re in the first event,” Marinette blurted.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Adrien said. “How’d you–”

“Oh I guess I just heard someone talking about it!” Marinette said very quickly, voice climbing sharply in pitch. “You know, around? At school?”

“You should go watch, Marinette!” Alya said with a grin and an elbow. “Support your boy! Cheer him on!”

Marinette’s cheeks flushed. “He’s not – I don’t–”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, I don’t mind,” Adrien said. A bleak little smile crossed his face. “If my dad’s not gonna be there, you definitely don’t have to be.”

Nino’s brows furrowed at that. “Oh, we’re definitely showing up,” he announced decisively. “We’re gonna make posters and everything. Right, Marinette?”

Marinette was frozen in her seat, eyes wide with alarm. Nino’s resolve faltered – oh, man, he’d totally volunteered her without asking first, that wasn’t cool, what if she had other plans, he hadn’t meant to make it weird. At last, she managed to stutter out a high-pitched “D-definitely! We’ll definitely be there, right, Alya?” Her hand frantically darted out, grabbing onto Alya’s in a vise-grip, seeking reassurance.

Alya cast an unimpressed gaze at Nino, then at Marinette, then at Adrien, then back at Marinette. “Yes,” she said. “We will definitely be there. At school. At eight in the morning. On a Saturday.”

Nino couldn’t have said it better himself. _The sleeping-in that I sacrifice for this bro-ship…_ he thought mournfully. Still, Gabriel Agreste’s chronic turd-itude could not be allowed to continue to wreak emotional havoc on Nino’s best boy.

Adrien, pleasantly embarrassed by this show of support, mumbled something grateful and picked at his salad (it was a cheat day, so he got to have _dressing_ on it). In this manner, lunch proceeded, some of the tension gone from the air.

 

* * *

 

As the four teens left the café, a blast of cold wind swept down the street, snatching Nino’s red cap from his head. Before Nino had even finished turning after it, hand outstretched, Adrien had deftly snatched it from the air. With a grin and a wink, he sat it back on Nino’s head. Something in Nino’s chest did a strange flip-flop at that.

“Wow, nice reflexes, Agreste,” Alya drawled.

“Catlike, I know,” Adrien said, striking a pose. He looked about as smug as the cat that got the cream. Then, a terrible light entered his eyes, and his grin became positively gleeful. Nino realized what was about to happen, and he knew in his bones that he could not stop it. Adrien raised his right hand to shoulder-height, curling his fingers inwards and bending his wrist, and, barely containing his own laughter, spoke as follows:

“You know, like…nya?”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’ll kill you,” Alya said matter-of-factly, and Nino _lost it_ , bending over and clutching his sides with laughter. Marinette was unable to contain a giggle as well, hand over her mouth, looking somewhat surprised at herself. “I wash my hands of this. Come on, Marinette, we’re leaving these two japesters to their tomfoolery.” Alya threaded her arm through Marinette’s and marched emphatically for a few steps. Marinette cast a glace over her shoulder as she went, a grin still curling her lips and a light in her eyes that Nino had never seen before. He felt heat rising in his cheeks, and reflected again that crushes were really inconvenient.

“Tom- _cat_ -foolery,” Adrien said, still with that shit-eating grin. He extended his arm to Nino. “Shall we, then, Japester Number One?”

Nino snorted. “Bro, let’s be real, you are definitely Japester Number One,” he said, threading his own arm through Adrien’s. “I am Japester Number Two. The Starscream to your Megatron.”

“Constantly plotting to overthrow me and claim leadership of the Decepticons?”

“Exactly.”

Adrien chuckled at that, bumping his shoulder against Nino’s affectionately. “Thanks for setting this lunch up, man. It was good to just hang out with everyone for a while.”

“I got you, bro,” Nino said, holding up his free hand for a fist bump. Adrien obliged him. Then, as they walked, Nino’s traitor mouth betrayed him _again_. “Hey, there’s something I want to tell you later.”

Adrien blinked. “Why not tell me now?”

Nino’s response was cut off by the squawk of a siren. His head snapped up in alarm. There was no way they were here for him, it was impossible. Still, his heart kicked into a higher gear as the police cruiser rolled to a halt by the curb, its lights flashing.

Alya’s phone was already out and recording as the two officers climbed from the car. Nino and Adrien stood beside her as she watched through her tiny screen. On her other side, Marinette was clutching Alya’s arm in a vice grip, her expression unreadable but her face pale. The police were maybe a dozen meters down the street, ahead of them. Alya moved closer, dragging the other three with her. It was too far away to hear what they were saying, but they approached a pair of pedestrians – mother and son, perhaps, or brother and sister, a gangly Arab youth and a woman that they now saw was wearing a niqāb. Nino felt a little relieved, at that – the full veil had been illegal in France since 2010, but the punishment was a fee at worst. If this wasn’t an akuma-related incident, everything would be…well, not _okay_ , but…

Then one of the cops made a grab for the veil. The woman ducked away with a cry of protest, and the boy stood in between her and the police, shouting something. The words weren’t clear, but the meaning was. The police were shouting now, too. One of them reached for the veil again and the boy tried to shove the officer away, planting his hands on the man’s chest. He got a nightstick to the face for his trouble, provoking a shriek of distress from the woman.

“Marinette, you’re hurting me,” Alya said, voice vague and distracted as she continued to film. Marinette released her grip on Alya’s arm, and she frantically reached behind Alya to clutch for something, anything, to hold on to. To hold herself back. She snagged Nino’s hand, and Nino felt his heart rate kick up a few more notches at _that_. He did his best to squeeze her hand comfortingly, but it was taking just about all he had to not start whimpering at the crush strength of the petite girl’s hand.

The officer raised his baton again for another strike, but the woman, pleading frantically, made a grab for his arm. The cop tried to tug his arm free, but his baton had gotten tangled in her sleeve. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like at first. The fabric tangled around his hand, his forearm, began to wind up towards his shoulder, pulling him off-balance and holding him close to the woman. The cop’s attempts to free himself grew increasingly frantic, as did the woman’s pleas, and the other cop’s shouts. Then, very suddenly, there were two loud barks, and the other cop’s pistol was in his hands. The woman’s free arm lashed out, a scarf-like trail of fabric bursting from the end of her sleeve and carrying her hand on the end of it. Claws like sewing needles glinted at the ends of her fingers, but the cop ducked away. She didn’t catch the gun, and it spoke three more times.

The woman crumpled to the ground like an empty coat, her billowing limb unwinding from around the first police officer’s arm. Someone was screaming. Well, lots of people were screaming, now.

“Oh, Jesus,” Alya said, her hand flying to her mouth. Her phone fell to the concrete. “Oh, shit.”

Nino felt like he might be sick. Marinette released his hand, and pulled Alya’s head against her shoulder. “Don’t look, Alya,” she said softly. “Don’t look.” Nino wanted to bend down and retrieve Alya’s phone, make sure the screen hadn’t cracked or anything. His legs didn’t seem to be taking any requests at the moment, though. His hands felt weak, his throat tight. As a muffled sob escaped Alya, Marinette turned to look at Adrien and Nino. “We have to go,” she said, her voice hard.

“We…” Adrien began, words seeming to have deserted him. He swallowed, and tried again. “We can’t, we have to stay and tell the cops what we saw! Give our statements or whatever! They just…they just _killed that woman_!” The last he leaned in to hiss, hand cupped around his mouth as though just saying the words too loudly was dangerous.

“Adrien,” Marinette said, her gaze locked with his own, her blue eyes burning. “ _We have to go._ ”

Whatever unspoken reasoning Adrien saw in those eyes, it quieted him. He managed a strangled nod after a moment. “C’mon, Nino,” he said, putting an arm around the other boy’s shoulders. “We’ve gotta split.”

Nino let himself be steered, and the four turned and began quickly walking the other way. After a second, Alya tugged herself free of Marinette with a protest that might have been “Wait, my phone,” and hurried a few steps back to retrieve it. Her fingers were shaking as she held the device, miraculously uncracked and undamaged. Distantly, Nino was glad for her; mostly, he felt like his body suddenly belonged to someone else.

_I can never tell anyone_ , he realized. _I absolutely cannot tell anyone that I’m an akuma._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, I'll just write an AU fic that touches on serious social issues and some heavy subject matter! It'll be fine, this won't mess me up at all!"  
> Well, kids, it was only somewhat fine.
> 
> On a related note, if anyone reading has any criticisms of how I handled this chapter or the general subject matter of this fic, no matter how lengthy your criticisms may be, I am certainly interested in hearing them. I do not wish to be hamfisted or insensitive.
> 
> Thank you to SaturdayLemon, AmyNChan, and kawaiirose for your comments on the previous chapter, which I appreciated even though I did not respond. And thank you to everyone else who's reading! I apologize for today's update being a day late; I was running behind schedule with chores and social obligations yesterday. I think I will also be moving to a bi-weekly update schedule going forwards, so I thank you for your continued patience as I attempt to carve out time for what I REALLY want to be doing (fandom stuff) while also not starving to death.
> 
> Just for fun, some character-specific inspiration songs for this fic:  
> Marinette - "Monster" by Paramore  
> Adrien - "Bolt Cutter" by Doomtree  
> Mylène - "Sheep In Wolves Clothes" by little hurricane  
> Appétit - "If I Had A Heart" by Fever Ray  
> Hawk Moth - "Courtship II" by HEALTH


	8. Crackdown, Pt. III - Reprisals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: Adrien gains a greater appreciation for Alya's determination and strength of character; Appétit puts his money where his mouth is; Hawk Moth settles an argument; and Ladybug and Chat Noir make a public appearance.
> 
> Content warnings this chapter for death, graphic violence, mild body horror.

_Coward_.

Marinette looked at herself in the mirror, the red-and-black spread across her face. She hated herself more than a little, in this moment.

_You just…stood there. And then you ran away. You didn’t try to do anything. You didn’t so much as raise your voice. You’re no better than those people at the mall, that day._

She had no idea how they’d made it through the rest of the school day. Alya hadn’t let go of Marinettte’s hand for the entirety of fourth and sixth periods. Marinette had asked Alya if she wanted to come back to the bakery with Marinette after school, if she didn’t feel up to walking home by herself, but her friend had declined. “I’m fine,” she’d said, obviously anything but. “I just need to go hide in my own room for a little bit. I’ll text you when I get there.” So, with a desperate hug, they’d parted. If Marinette was being honest, which she generally tried to be, she’d asked because she didn’t want to be alone. Still, if Alya needed familiar spaces and time alone to process, that took precedence. Alya’s comfort mattered more than Marinette’s.

_Too afraid to give up your perfect, comfortable little life for someone else’s **actual life** ,_ she thought resentfully at her reflection. _A “normal” life that’s going to fall apart around you any day. Coward, coward, coward._

Did she even deserve to wear those spots? Did she have the right to look at that face in the mirror, when she hadn’t stood up for someone else wearing one just like it?

She heaved a shaky sigh and flicked the bathroom light off.

 

* * *

 

_Coward_ , thought Adrien as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t look nearly as tired as he felt. _You just stood there. So much for your big talk about being a hero._ He sighed, running his hand through his hair, and wished for the hundredth time that day that…what had happened…had happened after dark instead. If only he’d been able to transform…

_More coward’s talk_ , he thought with a frustrated breath. _How many times have you read it? Every comic book says the same thing; powers don’t make you a hero. What makes you a hero is the courage to stand up for what’s right._

Everybody got one free screw-up, Adrien figured, and he’d just used his. Never again. No more innocent people dead on this superhero’s watch. On _his_ watch.

_And you think you’re willing to do what’s necessary?_ came his own mocking voice in his head again. _You think there was any way that situation today was going to play out that didn’t leave **someone** dead on the pavement? Not everything’s going to go as smoothly as it did when you helped Horrificator escape. You ready for it to be **you or them** , Chat Noir?_

He wasn’t. He really, really wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

Alya’s mouse pointer hovered hesitantly over the ‘POST’ button for a moment. She re-read the description she’d attached to the video again. Place, date, and time, and a straightforward summary; ‘Police kill akuma woman (GRAPHIC)’. Posted to one of her social media accounts not affiliated with her real name, on a platform that was hosted in a country whose internet takedown laws didn’t play nicely with France’s, to make it doubly difficult for them to suppress it. And, she supposed, to make it more difficult for them to prosecute her for breaking the new law against filming the police in the process of detaining an akuma, but that was a secondary consideration for Alya. The important thing was to get the story out there, and fast; put it in front of peoples’ eyeballs before the spin doctors could go to work.

It had only been a few hours; the police hadn’t even released a statement yet, and the major news outlets only had the beginnings of a story. No one had posted a video yet, as far as Alya could tell. Very possibly, no one else _had_ a video. Even in the age of crowdsourcing, Alya reflected, sometimes you were the only one who could do something. And wasn’t _that_ a terrifying responsibility.

There. With a click of the mouse, it was done. Alya sat back, took her glasses off, and waited for the internet to make her famous.

 

* * *

 

Alya glanced up from her phone as Adrien set his bag down, sitting heavily in Marinette’s usual seat with a sigh. “Feeling lonely, Agreste?” she asked in a low voice, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile on her face.

Adrien scratched his head sheepishly. “That obvious?” he whispered back. “This place is like a ghost town today. It’s kind of eerie. I’m kind of amazed my dad let me come to school, with what’s happening.”

Indeed, half the class or more was out today. Mme. Bustier had declared there would be no point in teaching since they’d just have to make the lesson up anyway and told everyone to do independent reading instead. Neither Marinette nor Nino had come to school. Adrien assumed it was for…well, the obvious reason.

Everyone else, though, was probably at home because of the riots.

It had taken three, maybe four hours for news of the shooting to spread. Once it did, the protests exploded. Riot police had been keeping crowds away from the Palais Bourbon and the headquarters of the Paris Prefecture of Police on the Île de la Cité all morning. Alya’s video was everywhere. The rioters had overturned cars, broken windows, and set fires. The parents of Collège Françoise Dupont’s students were apparently worried that the violence might spill over into the 21st arrondissement.

“Mom and Dad both went to work today,” Alya said dryly. “Too dangerous out for Mayor Bourgeois’ little princess, but my mother has to be at the Hotel Grand Paris bright and early like it was any other day. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, seems like.” She clicked her tongue in marked contempt and turned back to her phone, cradled in her lap out of the teacher’s sight.

Adrien felt obliged, as Chloé’s oldest friend, to make some sort of defense of her. In his brain, a chibified version of himself rummaged through his mental file cabinets for a good excuse for her. As usual, none was forthcoming; chibi-Adrien shrugged helplessly beneath regular-Adrien’s inquiring gaze. Adrien sighed.

“Yeah, that’s Chloé alright,” he said. Sitting by herself next to Chloé’s empty seat, Sabrina kept checking her phone every few minutes, like a puppy wondering when its human would be home. Adrien, as he often did, felt a little bad for her. He shook his head a little and returned his attention to the matter at hand.

Beside him, Alya’s face looked drawn, bags under her eyes. Her eyes were fixed, unwavering, on the screen of her phone. Her lips were tugged up at the corners in an expression that was nothing at all like a smile.

“What are you working on?” Adrien asked, still keeping his voice low to avoid drawing Mme. Bustier’s attention where she sat at her desk, catching up on grading.

“Keeping an eye on the video,” Alya said without looking back over at him.

_Ah_ , Adrien thought. “How’s it doing?” he asked, tone carefully light. ‘How are _you_ doing,’ he wanted to ask, but he felt like Alya might not want to be fretted over.

“They’ve tried to take it down a few times,” Alya said. “I’ve been moving it to different hosting platforms and reposting it under new accounts and stuff. Dunno what the stats are overall, but the most recent upload’s at thirty thousand views and it’s been up for like two hours.” She let out a shaky breath. Adrien was struck by how terribly fragile she looked, sitting there.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to lay a gentle touch on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Alya said, scrubbing at her face hastily. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just kind of tricky, you know, reposting the video and explaining what it is and keeping an eye on the stat counters and not – y’know, not accidentally watching it again.”

“You can take a break, you know,” Adrien said. “You don’t have to keep up with this if it means tearing yourself to shreds. You’ve done your part.”

Alya looked up, her sage-grey eyes meeting his own for a moment. A small, sad smile flitted across her face. “From those with much to give, much is demanded,” she said. “ _All-New Majestia_ , Issue #7. Don’t worry about me, Adrien, I’ll survive. This needs to get done.” She looked back down at her phone.

Adrien was quiet for a moment. An emotion rose up in him, powerful and bright, one he wasn’t used to feeling often. He’d felt it for Nino, when the boy had made Adrien his mission at a time when no one but Chloé paid him much attention. He’d felt it for Ladybug, when she’d told the story of how she’d stood up to the police that first time. He’d felt it for pretty much every character from _Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann_ , which was in his opinion one of the best anime ever made. Now, he realized, Alya had earned it too. If he had to name the emotion, he would call it _admiration_.

“You’re a hero, Alya, you know that?” he said at last.

Alya snorted, not looking back up. “Some hero. Not much good if I can’t stop this shit from happening in the first place.”

Adrien shrugged. “You’re more of a hero than me. You were the one who started filming right away; if it hadn’t been for you, no one would know for sure what had happened. And now you’re going to all this trouble to make sure that people know about it, that it can’t get swept under the rug. A real hero fights back however they can.”

Alya looked back up at him. She smiled again – a real smile this time, not a sad one. “Thanks for saying so, Agreste,” she said, with a gentle punch to his shoulder. A thought struck her, and she stifled laughter. “God, no wonder she’s always such a mess,” she said.

“No wonder what?” Adrien asked, batting his long lashes in innocent confusion.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alya said with a wave of her hand, still grinning. She shook her head, turning back to her phone. “Read your book, pretty boy, I’ve got a machine to rage against.”

With a small smile of his own, Adrien did so, pulling his physics textbook from his bag. He was glad he’d been able to comfort Alya at least a little bit. He hoped that Marinette and Nino were alright. Adrien knew that he himself wasn’t, but as long as his friends were okay, he’d manage.

Beside him, Alya drew in a sharp hiss of breath. “Oh, _shit_ ,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Rose tugged the blanket further up over her head and focused very hard on browsing her Tumblr as the sound of arguing drifted through her bedroom door. Pastel gifsets from classic animes, aesthetic photographs of girls’ stockinged legs, watercolor drawings of flowers, her mother’s voice raised in shrill panic…

Well. Arguing probably wasn’t the right word for what was happening. There were, Rose supposed, technically two mutually incompatible points of view being hashed out, but _arguing_ implied anger, or hostility. There wasn’t that, precisely.

“Don’t tell me everything’s going to be _fine_ , Antoine! Those fucking animals are running wild in the streets and the police are pulling womens’ clothes off and it is only a matter of time before they fucking _kill me!_ What do you think of _that_ , huh?! Life without your damn _meal ticket_?!”

_Alright. **Now** they’re arguing_ , Rose thought. She couldn’t hear Antoine’s response, as it was delivered at a less ear-splitting volume and was probably still intended to be calming. She felt guilty that she wasn’t out there helping her stepfather try to calm Mom down, but he’d quickly whispered to her to let him take care of this one before hurrying her into her room.

Rose tapped Juleka’s contact icon in the upper corner of her phone’s screen. _Could you distract me for a bit?_ she texted. _Mom and Antoine are fighting. Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you._

Three purple dots did a little line dance to let her know that her girlfriend was typing. _You know I don’t mind_ , came the answering text. _What are they fighting about?_

“Do you see this? Do you _see this, Antoine?_ Does this look like something that’s going to _go back to normal_ to you?!” her mother yelled. “My arm doesn’t have any god damn _meat_ on it anymore!! It’s just _wires!_ ”

Rose’s stomach squeezed in on itself uncomfortably as she contemplated how to answer Juleka’s question. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Juleka – on the contrary, she told the dark-haired girl everything. It was that, with this, she _couldn’t_ trust Juleka. She couldn’t trust anyone. And she didn’t want to have to lie to Juleka, either. That would set a bad precedent. Rose was a firm believer that the best way to avoid forming bad habits was to not do bad things in the first place. She pushed the sleeve of her pink pajama shirt up to scratch at the scabs on her forearm, feeling the stiff, cool skin around them and the slightly raised veins that were spreading out from the injury, up and down her arm.

_I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay_ , she texted back at last. _Could you just tell me about the book you’re reading or something?_

_Absolutely_ , Juleka said, and launched into it. She was apparently reading what she described as a “gaslight fantasy,” which Rose by this point in their relationship understood to mean “steampunk, but wearing elf ears,” about a scrappy mechanic and a disaffected young nobleman who secretly fought as vigilantes against the shadowy machinations of a criminal conspiracy. There were mistaken identities, unrequited love, even an attempt at commentary on class inequality. Juleka thought it was kind of implausible that the mechanic was in love with the nobleman but didn’t know he was secretly her vigilante partner, while the nobleman was in love with his vigilante partner and barely knew her in her daytime identity. Rose, on the other hand, thought that sounded perfectly romantic and exquisitely bittersweet. This was a familiar difference of opinion for the two girls.

After a while, there was a gentle knock at Rose’s door. “Rose?” called Antoine gently. “I think we’re finished, if you’d like to come out.

“I’ll be out in a moment!” Rose called back. She quickly checked her face in her phone’s camera – not too blotchy, good. Mom didn’t need to see that she’d been upset too. She fussed with her hair for a moment, then made sure to tug her pajama sleeve all the way down so that…well, so that Mom wouldn’t see anything that would upset her. She slid her feet into her fluffy slippers and cautiously crept out into the living room.

“Hey, Rosie!” her mother called, voice a little hoarse from screaming, from where she sat on the couch. The television played silently on the wall. She beckoned for Rose to come closer with her left arm, stretching it across her body awkwardly. Rose obliged, hurrying over. Her mother patted the couch next to her, and Rose sat. Her mother’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she wore an unsteady smile. “Sorry if the noise was bothering you earlier,” she said. She wrapped her left arm around Rose’s shoulders, her right held very carefully in her lap. Rose hugged her back.

“It’s okay, Mom,” she said. “I was texting Juleka, I barely noticed.”

“That’s good,” her mother said, sounding a little relieved. “That’s good. I hope you’re not distracting her while she’s in class, though.”

“No, she’s home today. I wouldn’t bother her otherwise.”

“That’s good,” her mother said again. She shifted on the couch to get more comfortable. There was an atonal creaking as she put her weight on her right arm for a moment. Rose’s eyes flicked reflexively towards the noise. She looked away again as quickly as she could, catching only a glimpse of steel wires sawing against each other like exposed muscle. She hoped Mom hadn’t noticed her looking.

Her mother tried to brush Rose’s bangs out of her eyes with her left hand, but the angle was awkward. After a moment she gave up, and reached up with her right hand to do it. Rose closed her eyes and let her mother fuss, not particularly minding the feel of the cool porcelain of her fingertips against her skin. “You’re growing up so fast,” her mother said, distantly.

“Iris,” Antoine said from the kitchen, his voice low with alarm. “Turn off the TV.”

“What?” Rose’s mother said, confused. “I’m not just going to –” Her objection died on her lips as she saw the news headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Rose couldn’t stop a quiet gasp from escaping her as she read the words ‘SECOND AKUMA FATALLY SHOT BY PARIS POLICE AS DETENTIONS, CIVIL UNREST CONTINUE’.

 

* * *

 

“That’s it,” Don Appétit spat, rising to his feet. He jolted the table as he went, nearly overbalancing the laptop that the assembled akuma were using to watch the news. “That’s enough of this shit. One of us a day now, huh? Is that the new normal?” He began to pace back and forth, fingers curled into claws with anger.

“Don, you’re shouting,” Ramier observed weakly from where he sat, turning his fedora over and over in his hands.

“We can’t just sit here and let this keep happening,” the mouthy akuma continued angrily, as though Ramier hadn’t spoken. “We should be out there, helping people.”

“Hawk Moth says it’s too dangerous for us to be out on the streets right now,” said one of the other akumas who’d arrived over the past few days. Appétit hadn’t bothered to learn his name yet.

“You…” Appétit began, storming over to the other man. As the others watched, a pair of new eyes bubbled up from the cluster that swallowed the right side of his face, and a new mouth unzipped itself across his throat. “You’re gonna sit here and tell me we can’t go out because it’s too dangerous when _they’re still out there, dying?!_ ” Lashing out, he kicked the man’s chair backwards, toppling him to the floor. He was shouting from multiple mouths now, the words sounding in terrifying chorus. “You _fucking coward!_ ”

Disturbed by the noise, the grasshopper-faced baby akuma began to wail from where she rested with her mother. “Don!” Ramier said in protest, rising from his seat. Before Appétit could advance any further on the unfortunate target of his anger, Nour appeared behind him, forcibly restraining his arms at his side. Appétit struggled against the taller woman’s grip for a moment, finally shrugging her loose with a violent twist of his shoulders.

“ _You think screaming at us is going to help any?_ ” Nour snapped at him in Arabic. The air around her shimmered with heat, glowing cracks spreading vertically from her eyes and mouth.

“ _If it gets you useless dogs off your asses and out there doing what we’re all supposed to be doing, then yeah, I’d say so!_ ” he responded in the same language.

“ _You see anyone getting up?_ ” Nour said, planting a hand on his chest and shoving him back from where he’d begun to intrude on her personal space. “ _All you’re doing is upsetting people and making yourself feel like a big man._ ”

Appétit snarled at that, teeth gnashing, but didn’t offer an immediate retort. “Fine,” he said after a moment, in French again. “Fine!” He turned on his heel and stormed towards the stairs out of the safehouse.

“Where are you going?” Jean called after him.

“To put my money where my mouth is!” Appétit yelled back. The heavy exterior door slammed behind him.

 

* * *

 

The great thing about looking for trouble, in Appétit’s opinion, was that you could usually find it. And, failing that, you could make some. Even so, he hadn’t been expecting to really find an opportunity like _this_.

This, specifically, was a police cruiser parked in front of a row house. A police cruiser that Appétit had just watched a cop shove a man with a wide rack of antlers into, hands cuffed behind him. The cop’s partner was saying something into his radio, standing a meter or two away. The utter casualness of the way the two men proceeded, hands gloved and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, made the anger that had been seething hot under his skin all day coil into something black and ugly in his stomach. Something dangerous. _Good_ , he thought. _It’s a dangerous day._

“Hey, pigs!” he yelled, steps quickening as he approached them. “Chew on this!”

The nearer cop reacted first, flinching backwards in surprise as he fumbled at his side for his gun. The pistol cleared its holster, and had begun rising toward Appétit when it vanished, along with most of the cop’s hand and the lower third of his forearm. Appétit lowered his hand, the mouth on his palm closing, as the man screamed at his bleeding stump. Appétit pointed his other hand at the second cop, who was on the opposite side of the car.

“Hands in the air, asshole, or I do you like I did your friend!” Appétit barked. The other cop complied, raising his hands over his head. “Good. Come around this side of the car.” The cop didn’t move at first, clearly reluctant to be any more at the akuma’s mercy. “ _Now!_ ” Appétit yelled from the monstrous maw splitting his face, lending the words an inhuman timbre. When the cop had complied, Appétit continued, speaking loudly to be heard over the first cop’s ongoing cries of pain. “Throw your gun away and then toss me the keys to the cage and I’ll let you put a tourniquet on your buddy before he bleeds out.”

“You’re not going to get away with this,” the cop said through gritted teeth as he complied.

“Dude, are you seriously trying to macho bluster at me right now? Are you- you know what, nevermind, I don’t even care.” Turning away, Appétit began trying the keys on the keyring on the rear doors of the police car. His only warning for what happened next was the sound of hurried footsteps. He’d partially turned when the gunshot sounded, the bullet glancing off the roof of the patrol car by his shoulder. The second cop had scrambled to retrieve his weapon from where he’d tossed it, firing from a crouch. He shot again; missed, impossibly, again.

He did not have a chance to shoot a third time, as a half-dozen mouths across Appétit’s torso opened up and tore him to shreds.

Appétit didn’t move for a moment, heart pounding and ears ringing. “Shit,” he whispered. “You fucking idiot, what did you think was going to happen?” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself, or to what was left of the police officer. Hands shaking, he unlocked the back door of the police car and pulled it open. Inside, the deer-horned man was staring at him with wide, panicked eyes.

“You’re being rescued,” Appétit informed him, reaching in to unbuckle the seat belt. “Come on.”

“I’m not going with you!” the man said shrilly. “You just killed two people!”

He’d actually only killed one, but Appétit was less concerned with correcting the man than with the absurdity of his objection in the first place. “Are you fucking kidding me? Come on, get out of the car.” The man refused, scrambling backwards. Appétit’s already-snapped temper managed to snap again. “ _Get out of the–_ ” he began, leaning into the car to attempt to drag the other akuma out. A hooved kick to his chest interrupted him, throwing him to the asphalt and knocking the wind out of him. There was an alarming moment as he struggled for breath, wondering absently if any of his ribs were broken. He wrestled himself to his feet, furious. Ears still ringing from the gunshots, chest aching, breath tight, that fucking cop _still screaming_ –

“God, would you _shut up!_ ” he said as he walked past the bleeding man. The remnants of the second cop were scattered across the fan of deep craters in the street where his mouth-blasts had taken chunks out of the asphalt. Thankfully, there wasn’t much of the man left; it was somehow _less_ gruesome, that way. With a quick search, he found what he was looking for – the pistol, which had miraculously survived. He pried the severed hand off of the grip and took it, skin crawling at the touch of a dead man’s hand. Returning to the open door of the rear of the police car, he pointedly cocked the gun and pointed it at the akuma cowering inside. “Get out of the fucking car right now.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, everyone was shouting when Chat Noir walked into the safehouse. Marinette saw him out of the corner of her eye, ears pinned back against his head at the noise as he peeked around the corner at the bottom of the entry stair. Everyone who wasn’t clustered around the card table bellowing at each other was huddling by the edges of the room, either trying their best not to get involved or helping Miriam’s mother attempt to stop her crying.

“– exactly why what the government is doing is justified!! If they wouldn’t let people walk around in public with a loaded gun, why aren’t you locked up?!” yelled the antlered akuma, gesticulating wildly.

“Innocent until proven guilty, dipshit! It’s been that way since 1789!” Appétit snapped back. “You don’t get to throw people in a hole and forget about them just because they _might_ be dangerous!”

“ _You killed someone!!_ ” Marinette said, incredulous. “What is there left to prove?!”

When Marinette had seen the news that another akuma had been killed by the police, she’d only barely managed to avoid a panic attack. When she’d heard, a few hours later, that a police officer had been killed by an akuma, the panic had returned with a vengeance. In the time it had taken her to calm down, the police had released a sketch of the akuma suspect. While it bore basically no resemblance to Don Appétit, there were only so many akuma running around with a “nightmarish mess of eyes and mouths” theme. As was often the case, anger had offered her an escape from fear; she’d told her parents that she wouldn’t have dinner and was going to bed early, and had stormed over to the safehouse to make sure that everyone was alright – and for an explanation. That had been almost an hour ago, and the argument that had been ongoing when she arrived was showing no signs of stopping.

“Oh, well, if that’s how you feel, why don’t you turn _yourself_ in to the cops?!” Appétit loomed over her, glaring from two dozen eyes, countless mouths stretched out in a snarl. “No? That’s what I thought.”

Marinette, seething, tried to muster an explanation that it was different, that she hadn’t been looking for a fight, that she hadn’t _killed_ anyone…

_But you could have_ , said an unhelpful voice in her head. _You don’t know how strong you are, really. Ordinary humans can accidentally kill people in fights – what do you think **you** could do to them?_

With a frustrated growl, Marinette snapped back with the only retort she could think of. “Maybe I will!” she said, throwing her arms up. “Maybe I will turn myself in! What do you think of that?”

“I think you’re a goody-two-shoes and an idiot! We’ve been over this, come on, keep up,” Appétit snapped. He pointedly turned away from her. “Anyone have anything _productive_ to add to this conversation?”

_M. Appétit_ , came Hawk Moth’s mental voice. Everyone in the safe house went still. Their mysterious patron hadn’t been heard from all day, nor given any sign of interest in their argument. After a moment of total silence, Hawk Moth continued. _I am correct in thinking that you are the akuma currently being sought for the slaying of a police officer earlier today, yes?_

“Guilty,” Appétit answered, warily looking up at the moths circling overhead.

Hawk Moth let them stew in silence for another long moment. _You took steps to avoid being tracked back here?_

Appétit nodded. “I used the map you showed us – the streets with no cameras, the maintenance tunnels, everything.”

There was a third, shorter pause. _Good work_ , Hawk Moth said at last.

At that, the safe house exploded into shouting again.

“– _murderer_ , you can’t seriously be condoning –”

“– put all of us at risk –”

“Nice to see _someone_ around here has a backbone–”

_Enough,_ Hawk Moth said, in a tone that entertained no further discussion. _It was inevitable that it would come to this. I am unwilling to write off dozens of our fellow akuma as acceptable losses while we waste time attempting to reason with our would-be destroyers or wait in our bolt-holes for death to find us. The state has made it clear that this is a battle to our death, and in doing so they have freed our hands to do whatever is necessary to survive. Self-defense can never be a crime._

“So we’re exactly what they say we are, now?” one of the other akuma protested. “A conspiracy of super-criminals?”

_Wicked laws make criminals of virtuous men. If any of you truly find what M. Appétit has done so unconscionable, you may take your leave of our company. No one is forcing you to stay._

This provoked another round of shouting. Marinette was about to join in, but she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. Chat Noir stood behind her, a thoughtful frown on his face. He threw a thumb over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in a silent request. With a nod, she followed him back up the staircase and out into the alley. The noise of the argument died away, replaced by the familiar sounds of the city by night.

Chat Noir’s green, green eyes glowed in the darkness as he turned to face her. “Did you mean what you said, just then, about turning yourself in?” he asked, softly. His tail lashed around his ankles.

“I don’t know,” Marinette said. “Maybe?” She fidgeted under Chat’s gaze, feeling like she was disappointing him somehow. “What we’re doing is dangerous. We could hurt people – _kill_ people. I don’t think it’s _wrong_ , but…” She shrugged. “I don’t want to just write myself a blank check, you know?”

Chat nodded. “I get that,” he said. “I think the fact that you’re even worried about that is a good sign, though.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

She managed a smile in response. “Thanks, Chat.”

“There’s a vigil tonight, at the Place de la République,” he said. “For the people that were killed. I was thinking about going.” His tone made the statement an invitation.

That felt… _right_ , somehow, in a way Marinette hadn’t expected. She opened her mouth to say she would come along, but then her head caught up with her heart. “I doubt it would be safe for us to be out in public, tonight of all nights.”

Chat shrugged. “Definitely not. I think we should do it anyway though. Make a statement, you know? Plus, there’s gonna be like hundreds of people there. Nobody will even notice us, and if the cops show up we can just hide in the crowd.”

“How will showing up make a statement if no one notices us?” Marinette asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Chat frowned, searching for a retort. “Ah, hairballs,” he muttered in frustration, unable to come up with one.

Marinette giggled at that. “Alright,” she said. “Even if we don’t make an impression, I want to go.” Her face darkened as thoughts of yesterday – _God, had it only been yesterday?_ – rose to the surface. “I think…” Her words trailed off. She wasn’t sure what she thought.

“It’s like we owe it to them, right?” Chat said softly, gazing at nothing.

“Yeah,” Marinette said, a warm ball of relief unfolding in her chest. _He understands_. “Yeah, we do.”

 

* * *

 

Adrien had, admittedly, never been to a vigil before, candlelit or otherwise. He therefore didn’t have much basis for comparison. Maybe vigils were supposed to be noisy?

Even so, he was beginning to suspect that this was not so much a vigil as it was a… well, _protest_. People were chanting slogans!

“People are chanting slogans,” he said uneasily, leaning to speak into Ladybug’s ear.

“I noticed,” she said, hands planted on her hips as they surveyed the crowd from the edge of the square. She frowned, her cute little upturned nose scrunching as she thought.

_I am probably going to die if she keeps doing that,_ some part of Adrien said. _No, bad cat. Down_ , said another part of him.

“Well, this is still fine,” Ladybug concluded after a moment. “We can at least go light a candle.” They began to head towards the statue of Marianne at the center of the square, at the heart of the crowd. “Who organized this?” she asked him as they walked.

“No idea,” Adrien said, eyes flitting to and fro as they went. “I didn’t even think to check, I just heard about it on Al- on a friend’s social media.” Despite his reassurances to Ladybug earlier, the hair on the back of his neck was standing up at being out in public like this. He wasn’t _afraid,_ of course he wasn’t afraid…but maybe he was a little nervous. Still, nobody seemed to be giving them a second glance. He turned back to Ladybug, who was looking determinedly straight ahead as they walked, blue eyes fixed on the – _hey, wait a second_.

“Hey, Bug, are you getting taller?” he asked.

“Am I what?” she said, confusion in her blue eyes as she turned head towards him. Blue eyes that were definitely almost level with his own, rather than tucked charmingly below his shoulder. Blue eyes that now widened as she looked down. “What the shit?!”

Adrien’s gaze followed Ladybug’s. Her legs were stretching, growing comically stiltlike as they propelled her upwards. “Are you doing that on purpose?” he asked.

“No, I’m not! I don’t know why this is happening!” Ladybug said, starting to sound panicky as her head started to rise above the crowd.

Adrien was also panicking at this point. What was he even supposed to do here? Should they try to run, get back out of sight until Ladybug’s powers were back under control? He’d said that he wanted to make a statement by being visibly akumatized in public, though; didn’t that mean they should stay? But he couldn’t drag Ladybug into that, since that had been his desire and not hers. And anyway, it was one thing to take a risk like this when their powers were under control, but quite another when they were glitchy and misbehaving. Eyes wide and pupils swallowing his irises, all he could do was look helplessly up at Ladybug as she rose like a carnival clown on stilts.

Any further panicked indecision on Adrien’s part was cut short, though, by something that guaranteed that _everyone_ was now paying attention to them. Ladybug now jutted a full two meters above the surface of the crowd, wobbling a little unsteadily. The call-and-response protest chants were being lead by a megaphone-wielding man standing at the base of the statue. “ _No arrests without a crime! No sentence without a trial! No arrests without a – oh my god!!_ ” His eyes widened as he saw Ladybug, and he did possibly the least helpful thing he could have done under the circumstances. Megaphone still held to his mouth, he pointed at her and said, in total shock, “ _It’s an akuma!_ ”

Almost as one, the entire crowd’s heads swiveled towards the duo. Chat managed an unsteady grin, ears pinned back against his head at the sudden scrutiny. This was not exactly going like he’d planned.

At the head of the crowd, the man gestured enthusiastically at Ladybug to come up and join him. Ladybug frantically shook her head no, waving her arms in protest. The man gestured again, more emphatically. Contrary to their dismay, he looked positively elated. Adrien supposed that made a certain amount of sense – having a real live akuma show up definitely made his protest look a bit more credible.

Ladybug gave a small groan, appearing to come to some sort of decision. She looked down at him for a moment, then nodded towards the improvised stage at the base of the statue. Adrien answered her nod with one of his own. Together, they headed towards it, Adrien gently but firmly elbowing and Ladybug gingerly picking her way through the crowd, as though navigating a cluttered room.

When they reached the base of the statue, clearing the crowd, Ladybug began to rapidly lose height, her legs shrinking over the last few steps to their normal length. She stumbled a little, catching him by the shoulder to steady herself. Adrien’s heart fluttered in his chest. “My lady, you give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘legs for days,’” he said with a grin. Was he blushing? God, he hoped he wasn’t blushing. _Play it cool, you doofus._

Ladybug rolled her eyes. “Laugh it up, fuzzball,” she said.

This close to them, the man with the megaphone was caught speechless, mouth hanging open underneath a scraggly beard. Hesitantly, wordlessly, he offered Ladybug a candle. She took it, lighting it from one of the dozens clustered beneath the two large pictures – one of a woman Adrien assumed must have been the cloth-akuma he’d seen with Marinette, Nino, and Alya the day before, and another of a man he didn’t recognize who must have been the akuma killed today. Ladybug looked at her candle for a moment, and at the smiling faces of the two dead mutants, before setting it with the others. The crowd was almost silent, every eye on her. Adrien watched as she took a small, steadying breath, back still to the crowd. It was a small, private moment; he could tell that even he wasn’t there, to her. When she turned decisively back to the man with the megaphone, there was steel in the set of her shoulders.

“Give me the megaphone,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Oh, do you want to – I mean, yeah, sure, whatever you…here you go,” the man said, holding it out to her, eyes still round as saucers. She took it from him, and stepped up to the front of the small stage without a backward glance.

“Some of you probably recognize me,” she said to the crowd, without preamble. “For those of you who don’t, I’m called Ladybug, and I’m an akuma. Until very recently, I was just an ordinary Parisian like any of you. I have a family, friends; I was born right here in the city. We’re not alien sleeper agents, we’re not magical terrorists, there’s no shadowy conspiracy like they’re saying there is. We’re just people.

“A few weeks ago, I happened to be out shopping for groceries when I saw two police officers trying to arrest an old man who was having, if he hadn’t been an akuma, what any reasonable person would have called a medical emergency. He wasn’t hurting anyone, wasn’t doing anything threatening. His only crime was being out in public.”

Her next words were said with a tone of challenge as she gazed levelly out at the gathered people. “So I stopped them.” She paused for a moment to let that sink in. “I put them in the hospital, in fact. I’m not happy about it. I went home and had a panic attack! I’m still not sure it was the right thing to do. Even so, I know I would absolutely do the same thing again if I had to.

“Three people have died in the last two days. Two of them have pictures up behind me, here. The last one doesn’t, because he was a police officer. An akuma killed him, trying to save another one of us just like I did. I don’t know if that was the right thing to do or not. Every death is a tragedy. We’re all human – even the monsters.

“Some people have said we should turn ourselves in. Maybe I will do that, someday. I don’t believe that any one person should decide whether or not someone else deserves to live or die. I’m willing to stand trial, and accept the judgment of my peers on whether what I did was right or wrong. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to hand myself meekly over to be carted off to a classified lab somewhere and dissected. I’m not going to let anyone else be taken away either. This is France! The birthplace of liberty!

“So here’s my message: You can arrest us, you can put us on trial, as long as it’s a _fair_ trial. One with evidence, and lawyers, and actual charges for things we actually did, where we have constitutional rights, where the public can observe the proceedings, where the punishment is fair and proportionate and the same as what you’d give any other offender. When we’re guaranteed of that, I’ll turn myself in. And if any other akuma isn’t willing to do the same, once this has all settled down, I’ll bring them in myself. That’s my promise to you.

“Until then…you can find me resisting arrest.”

With that, Ladybug handed the megaphone back to the man and turned away from the crowd, walking back over to Adrien. “You want to get out of here?” she asked him, shouting to be heard over the sudden noise from the crowd, tone still brusque and authoritative in a way that sent shivers right up and down the length of him.

“I love you,” Adrien said before he could stop himself.

“What?” Ladybug yelled again, cupping a hand to her ear.

Adrien was pretty sure this was what a near-death experience felt like. “Y-yeah!” he stammered, speaking up to be heard. “We should probably split before things get too crazy!”

 

* * *

 

As the crowd erupted around her, Mylène felt very small. Her candle flickered in one hand; the other hand, palm sweaty, tightly gripped her father’s where he stood by her side. Ladybug’s last promise still echoed in her mind. _And if any other akuma isn’t willing to do the same…_

_Me. She’s talking about me,_ Mylène thought.

She squashed the anger that rose suddenly, violently in her. _I’d like to see you try to bring me anywhere –_ but no, no. No. Ladybug was right. Anger might be easier for her to cope with than guilt, but the guilt had a right to be there. The anger didn’t. Mylène knew she’d have to account for her mistakes eventually.

In the meantime, though…in the meantime, she was going to find Ivan. Anyone who stood in her way was going to regret it. Anyone who tried to hurt any of the people she had left was going to regret it. All Mylène had to do was not do anything _she’d_ regret.

She blew out her candle and tucked it into the pocket of her hoodie, following her father as he tugged her by the hand away from the cheering crowd.

 

* * *

 

Alya lowered her phone, stopping the recording. Don’t bring a camera to a protest, don’t tag your friends who attended on social media, don’t do the police’s job for them – as many times as she’d given that advice to friends, family, strangers on the internet, she felt like a bit of a hypocrite now.

Still, this was an exceptional circumstance. It wasn’t every day you got to hear a Big Damn Hero speech from someone Alya was increasingly confident was a real, actual, costumed super-vigilante.

Super- _hero_.

_Superhero_.

Drumming her feet on the pavement and wrapping herself up in a fierce hug, Alya let out a shriek of delight.

_Marinette is going to **flip** when I tell her about this tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead!! Sorry this took like a million years!!! Being unemployed and mentally ill sucks!
> 
> Next chapter, Mylène asks Hawk Moth for help finding Ivan and Adrien ~~finally gets the love and support he deserves~~ has his fencing tournament. Also, the pretentious chapter-heading quotes will resume.
> 
> Catch me [on tumblr](http://baal-pit.tumblr.com) for memes & spicy discourse


End file.
